


Another Time

by snuckybarnes



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Reincarnation, tagged as death because Geralt is technically dead from the start
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-09-20 14:56:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17024775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snuckybarnes/pseuds/snuckybarnes
Summary: Geralt of Rivia dies a witcher's death.Hundreds of years later, his soul is born again and set on the same path as it was once before.Regis finds him, and can't believe his eyes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this thought in my head for weeks, finally decided to write it down.
> 
> If you like it, consider letting me know in the comments and I might continue it further!
> 
> 18/03-19: I just fixed some mistakes that was there due to my own forgetfulness; nothing that impacts the story at all, just tiny details that bothered me!

_Geralt of Rivia dies a witcher's death._

_It is nothing grand, in the end, and he does not die to fulfill a particularly important quest or destiny. It is simply a witcher's death, where the monsters were too many and his reflexes not quick enough. He fights until he can fight no longer, until his wounds are too grave and send him to the ground. It is a painful death, but also quick._

_His body is not found for quite some time. The locals for whom he was to slay the monsters do not dare to go look for the witcher that did not return, and as his friends do not expect him soon, they do not search. Only when a sorceress grows tired of her messages remaining unanswered does she search for his whereabouts, and when she finds him he is already rotting._

_She tells his friends, and they all mourn him, more than he ever expected anyone to. If he expected anyone to mourn him at all. Eventually they move on, and as time passes they too fade from the world, their mortal bodies dying and decaying until all that is left of them is the soil in which they are buried._

_But not all of Geralt's friends are mortal, and no oblivion beneath the earth awaits them. And so, they are left to mourn alone._

 

\- - -

 

Several hundred years later, Geralt Korins is awakened by the sound of his phone ringing.

He reaches for it without opening his eyes, accepts the call and puts the phone to his ear. "Yeah?" he says, voice raspy from sleep. Well, raspier than usual.

"Geralt, finally! We've got something you should take a look at." Police captain Webster. Direct as always, which is a good thing. Self-absorbed and kind of inconsiderate, which is less so.

Regardless of what he thinks of the woman, Geralt gives an affirmative grunt. "Be right there." Then he hangs up.

Letting his phone drop from his grasp, Geralt squeezes his eyes shut tighter for a moment, before finally opening them. He stares up at the ceiling above him, with its white paint flaking in the corners and its mysterious stains. Like always when he wakes up, he can't quite shake his dreams and the feeling that he should be somewhere else. This time, the dream featured small, old houses and pleasant fields, and he wonders where it would have taken him if he hadn't been woken up.

And while on that subject, he really should get out of bed. A glance at his phone tells him it's already ten in the morning. Reluctantly, he sits up.

He makes his way into the bathroom, where he stops in front of the mirror. The gash on his arm has almost healed, he notes, willing himself not to pick on the scabs. He has a drowner's claws to thank that one for. It'll scar, but it won't be anything too prominent.

Given the time, he opts out of showering, and washes his face with cold water instead. He brushes his white hair and ties it back into a ponytail, considering not for the first time to just cut it all off. It's not particularly practical to keep it long in his profession, and it certainly doesn't make him less of an eyesore in a crowd, but he can't bring himself to take a pair of scissors to it. He likes it long. The short sides of the undercut could use some trimming soon though, as could his beard, but it can wait another day or two.

Geralt takes one last look in the mirror, meeting the eyes that he wasn't born with, before he leaves.

 

Clad in his padded leather jacket and carrying more weapons than any passerby would suspect, Geralt soon makes his way to Novigrad's southern police station. It's not far, yet he gets several looks from strangers as he passes them in the street. He can't blame them, really, and he's more than used to it. Honestly, he would stare at himself too.

The cops at the station are better at hiding their stares, given how they're used to his presence, but Geralt still catches someone throwing glances his way from time to time. Captain Webster, however, barely looks at him at all. Merely gives him a nod of greeting as she sees him enter, before bringing up a file and getting straight to the point.

"Two bodies were found last night, both drained of blood and they've both got similar marks on their necks. I'm assuming this is more up your alley than ours," she tells him. She opens the file as she speaks, showing him photographs of the victim and the scene where they were found.

"Looks like a vampire," Geralt agrees.

Webster raises her hand, her palm facing Geralt. "I don't need any details. Just take care of it."

Somehow, he keeps forgetting that this is how she always handles their business together.

"Right," he agrees. "Where were they found?"

 

It's a narrow backstreet that stinks of trash. Of course it is. Geralt wishes he had a scarf or something similar to filter out the scent, but he doesn't. Instead he has to make do covering his nose and mouth with his hand as he looks around the place. If he'd gotten to choose, he would have liked to look at the bodies first and examine the wounds to discern something about the creature that killed them, but that isn't how his arrangement with Webster works. Once a body is in the morgue, Geralt has no access to it. The crime scenes are a different matter, however, and he is never stopped as he steps under the police tape. And usually, visiting the scene of the murder can be enough to get on the monster's track. Which almost always leads to Geralt killing it, which in turn leads to him getting paid. A freelance fee, of course, because no one would permanently hire a witcher.

There are no markings on the ground for where the bodies were found, but Geralt doesn't need any. The surroundings provide enough clues for him to piece it together; the position of the bodies, the movement of both victims and attacker, and the nature of the beast.

"Ekimmara," he says to himself as he stands up, confirming his vampire theory. It's been a while since he fought one, but it shouldn't prove too much of a challenge with the right equipment. The creature has left a trail easy for him to follow, even though a regular person would have a hard time even spotting it.

The trail leads Geralt around the corner and along quite a few streets. The ekimmara must have been hunting for some time during the night, and it isn't until several blocks away that the trail leads down into the sewers. Another charming location that unfortunately tends to be a part of his working life. Before he ventures below the city, Geralt takes out a vial of Black Blood potion from the bag attached to his belt and downs it. He swallows it, then spits once onto the asphalt in a futile attempt to rid his mouth of the foul taste. The stuff has been used by witchers for centuries, so you'd think they would have found a way to make it taste better by now, but no. Or maybe they have, and it used to taste even worse. Geralt doesn't dwell on it. Instead he takes out another vial, this one containing an oil harmful for vampires. He pulls his long silver dagger from its sheath on his thigh and coats the blade in the oil. Then he curses this foul-smelling city and enters its sewers.

Once inside the sewers, Geralt quickly picks up the trail again, and he tries not to think about what he's stepping in as he follows it. He's going to have to clean his boots when he gets home, that's for sure. At least they're not leaking.

He doesn't need to walk far until he feels a warm hum against his sternum: His witcher amulet letting him know that he's nearing something supernatural.

As always, the amulet is correct, and soon he spots the ekimmara further down the sewer. He moves his dagger to his left hand and draws his pistol with his right, aiming it at the monster. It doesn't see him, but Geralt sees it, as well as more bodies that it has dragged to its lair rather than let die in the street. He fires, and the silver bullet hits its mark in the vampire's back.

Upon the impact, the ekimmara spins around and shrieks. Geralt fires again, hitting it in the chest as it advances on him. Soon it is too close for the gun, so Geralt hurries to put it away as he switches his focus to his dagger, raising it in front of himself to block any incoming blow.

The ekimmara lunges for him, and he ducks underneath its arm, thrusting the dagger into its ribcage, below the shoulder blade. It shrieks again and spins around, but Geralt is faster, dancing out of its reach and then close enough for him to slash at it. It's bleeding, but Geralt knows not to be deceived; he needs to act fast before the regeneration kicks in.

They keep up the lethal dance for a while longer, Geralt slashing the ekimmara's skin and flesh, while it reaches for him with its claws. It gets him a few times, but only pierces his jacket and never gets to his skin. At one point they're close to each other and Geralt considers letting it bite him and have a taste of his poisoned blood, before he manages to reach up and embed his dagger in the creature's stomach, slicing upwards. Its wet and slimy guts cover Geralt's hand and forearm as they spill out of the ekimmara, and a second later it falls to the ground.

Geralt steps back, chest heaving. He can hear his own pulse in his ears as the adrenaline surge starts to fade. He brings out his phone, snapping a picture of proof, before putting it back and taking out his lighter. This thing needs to burn.

He approaches the dead ekimmara again to light it on fire. But he is caught unawares as it suddenly reaches up and slashes at his leg. Geralt hisses in pain as he brings his dagger down into the vampire's brain. _Always make sure it's dead._ The old lesson echoes in his head as he presses his hand down on the fresh wound, his lighter dropped somewhere. The wound isn't bad, but it was avoidable and for that he scolds himself.

A bit clumsily, he wipes off his dagger on the ekimmara's fur before sheathing it. Then he finds his lighter again and sets the corpse on fire and steps back. As he watches it burn, he goes through his bag for a bottle of vodka. He takes a swig from it, and then pours some on the gash on his leg. It stings, but this is hardly the first time Geralt has done this. He puts the vodka back and brings out a bandage which he wraps around his leg. He'll need to do a proper job of it later, but it will have to do for now.

As he waits for the vampire to burn, Geralt sits down on a ledge that seems relatively clean. His clothes are already ruined and he's running out of fucks to give today. He takes out his phone again and snaps another picture of the now burning ekimmara, and then sends both images to Webster.

_'Ekimmara killed the victims. Burning it right now.'_

Webster's reply comes a few minutes later:

_'What did I say about details, Geralt? Just bring some of the ashes back when it's done.'_

Geralt sighs. Some strange laws still require physical proof of kill for a witcher to be paid for their work. Usually that isn't a problem, but when the monster needs to burn that means he has to wait for what feels like an unnecessary amount of time before he can get on with his day.

 

Some time later, Geralt gathers some of the ashes in a discarded bag he finds laying around in the ekimmara's lair, and makes his way back through the sewers. He makes sure to remember where the lair is, so that Webster can send her people to retrieve the dead bodies. Some of them probably have families wondering what became of them. His leg throbs a little as he walks, but he tries to put it out of his mind.

Stepping out of the sewers and into the light of day, Geralt realises how messed up he looks. His leg bandaged and his jacket torn, his hands still covered in ekimmara guts, and most of him splashed with sewer water from the fight. He's so busy being annoyed at the ekimmara for the state of himself, that he at first doesn't notice the other man standing in the alley with him.

When he does look up and spot the man, he flinches and almost reaches for his dagger out of instinct, before composing himself again.

The man is middle-aged or older, with some wrinkles in his face and a receding hairline. The hair itself is grey and seems to be long and tied back. He's casually dressed in a light brown leather jacket and dark jeans. A messenger bag is slung across his shoulder and his hand has a tight grip on its strap. Maybe he's worried Geralt is about to rob him. His eyes are so very dark, but open wide and staring at Geralt as if he's seen a ghost.

And Geralt can't really blame him. There's a reason he always tries to avoid the main streets when returning home from a job, and that reason is simply that while a witcher might be intimidating, they're usually more so when they're covered in blood and gore.

Geralt raises his hands slowly as to not frighten the man, his palms facing outwards. "Not gonna harm you," he assures. Something about the man seems familiar, though Geralt can't place where he has seen him before.

The man swallows. "Oh dear," he simply says.

Geralt glances behind and around himself. The only way out of the alley is to pass by the man, and he'd rather do that without the man either having a heart attack or feel the urge to call the cops. Both seem pretty likely at the moment. He sighs and takes a slow step forward. "My name is Geralt, I'm a witcher." Another step." I hunt monsters, which is why I'm covered in blood."

"I'm dreaming. I must be," the man says to himself, low enough that he must have meant for Geralt not to hear it.

Geralt takes another step and begins to lower his hands again, pretending not to have heard the man. "Promise I won't hurt you. Just need to pass."

The man steps to the side as Geralt approaches. He's still wide-eyed and clutching the strap of his bag as if his life depended on it, but he doesn't seem like he's going to panic. Once Geralt has passed, he throws one last look at the man before he sets his course for the police station.

 

Geralt leaves dirty boot prints on the station floor, but he doesn't really care. He drops the bag — a tattered backpack that once must have been colourful — containing the ekimmara's ashes on Webster's desk.

"Hey!" she protests, pulling her documents away from the dirty bag. She glares at Geralt, the wrinkles between her eyebrows deepening.

"Job's done," Geralt tells her, ignoring her objection.

Webster sighs. "Fine. I'll add it to your paycheck."

"How much this time?"

 

Not long after, Geralt leaves the station, slightly disappointed with his promised pay. It could have been a lot better, and his rent isn't cheap, despite the shitty state of his apartment. But that's just Novigrad for you.

He makes his way home to said apartment, and once he's there he begins to take off his dirty equipment, dropping it on the tarp that lays permanently unfolded on his kitchen floor. His weapons go, as does his boots and jacket. The leather of the sleeves is torn, but not beyond mending. His gloves are undamaged, but need a thorough cleaning. He unwraps the bandage from his leg and deems it reusable after a good wash and boil. Beneath it, the gash on his leg still is pretty nasty, and he winces as he pulls his jeans off past it. He dumps them on the tarp as well, and sighs at the pile of chores in front of him before going to take a shower.

The gore washes off of him and down the drain, along with the stench of sewer and death. Geralt lets himself enjoy the warm water for the few minutes it lasts, and then steps out of the cramped space that is his shower. He ties his hair back again, and then proceeds to properly clean and dress the wound on his leg before getting dressed.

The rest of his afternoon is spent cleaning and mending his gear, while some mindless show streams from his shitty laptop. Geralt's leather jacket consists more of patches than of the original material by now, but he will keep mending it until he can't anymore. Leather scraps are cheaper than a new jacket, after all. After many hours, the pile on the tarp is gone and his gear is ready for use once more. He refills his Black Blood and vampire oil vials from his stock and then considers himself done with his tasks. Finally.

After cooking and eating a simple meal, Geralt takes a look outside the window. It's dark out, but the weather seems pleasant enough. Usually, he plays the lone wolf and keeps to himself, but tonight he feels the urge to seek out the company of others. And spending the evening in a bar where other people exist in the same room as he does counts as company in Geralt's book.

 

So that's how he finds himself in the nearest bar about half an hour later, nursing a glass of overpriced vodka. His gun and long dagger have been left at home, but he still keeps some concealed weapons on his person and his padded leather jacket is his constant companion. You never know when you're going to run into a monster, especially when you're a witcher.

His glass is almost empty when someone comes to stand by his booth. Geralt looks up, expecting to find someone asking for a fight. It's not unusual, for people to feel so unsettled by his presence that they feel the need to drive him out. Witchers are necessary, but most people prefer them to stick to the shadows.

But what he sees is not an angry drunk, and instead the man from the alley earlier, holding two glasses in his hands. He no longer looks at Geralt with wide, shocked eyes, but there is still a nervous aura clinging to him. A moment passes, then he holds out one of the glasses. "Temerian, right?"

Geralt blinks, wondering how the man knew his choice of drink. Deciding that it doesn't matter, he nods. "Yeah."

The man puts the glass down in front of Geralt, then nods to the seat across from him. "May I?"

Geralt gestures for him to sit down, and downs the last of his own vodka as the man does so.

"You must forgive me for earlier today," the man says after taking his seat. "I was so startled I forgot my manners."

Strange thing to start with, Geralt thinks. But then again, he's not used to being apologised to. "Sorry if I scared you," he counters. "Didn't expect to run into anybody."

The man smiles slightly, his dark eyes glinting in the low light of the bar. "No harm done. But I'm forgetting my manners again. My name is Regis." He reaches a hand over the table.

Geralt takes it and shakes it once before letting go. "Geralt. But I think I told you that already."

The man — Regis — nods, the small smile still playing on his lips. "You did."

Geralt finds his own lips twitch into a smile for a moment, before he clears his throat. "So. You spot a witcher exiting the sewers, then you spot him in a bar the very same day and decide to buy him a drink. May I ask why?"

Regis looks down at his own drink, his brow furrowing slightly. "I'm… a bit of a historian, I suppose. I know a thing or two about witchers, though it's been quite some time since I had the pleasure of knowing one."

"Most people wouldn't call it a pleasure to know a witcher," Geralt points out.

Regis shrugs, smile returning. "I suppose I'm not most people, then."

"Suppose so," Geralt agrees, raising his glass to his mouth. Regis does the same, and Geralt finds his gaze locked onto his slender hand as it wraps around the glass. His fingernails are long and sharp, but well maintained, elegant somehow. Geralt blinks to shake the thought.

There's a faint _clink_ as Regis sets his glass back down onto the table, and a moment passes as he clasps his fingers together. "Tell me, Geralt," he begins, "how well versed are you in the history of your order?"

Oh. Straight to the point of gaining information, then. Geralt is going to have to let him down. "Not very," he admits. "Most records are about fighting monsters, not those who fought them."

A small frown appears on Regis' brow. "I take it then, you don't know about your namesake?"

Geralt blinks, taken by surprise. "My what?" As far as he knows, he's not named after anybody. Perhaps this Regis doesn't want information after all.

"Well, perhaps not your namesake, but there was another witcher who went by the same name. Geralt of Rivia. He was a prominent witcher during the thirteenth century, and rather formidable." A… wistful smile settles on Regis lips before he looks up at Geralt and adds, "Erm. From what I've read, at least."

The thirteenth century was a long time ago, so it's not strange that Geralt has heard nothing about this man who shares his name. He's never been all that interested in history, but he feels a strange curiosity about this and he wants to know more. "What else do you know about him?" he asks Regis.

Regis gives him a look that he can't quite discern, before speaking. "Where do I start? He helped defeat evils such as the wild hunt, yet he was also known for befriending those who most consider monsters. He was a skilled swordsman, and belonged to the school of the wolf."

There's a beat of silence, before Geralt reaches for the chain of his amulet, pulling it out from underneath his shirt. "So do I," he says. The amulet looks like a large coin, with a sharp and stylised wolf shown in relief. The metal is warm from where it's been resting against his skin. He doesn't really know why he feels prompted to show off the amulet; he just does it.

Regis leans forwards a bit for a moment, to get a closer look. There's a slight frown on his brow again. "Hm. They've changed the designs," he says.

"Sorry?"

Regis clears his throat. "In all illustrations I've seen, witcher medallions are bigger and much more three-dimensional," he explains. "But I suppose this is more practical."

Geralt looks down at the amulet in his hand, running his thumb over the raised wolf. Strangely, in his mind's eye he can see what Regis is talking about, can feel the sharp angles of a larger medallion. It only lasts for a moment though, and as the feeling fades he tucks the amulet back underneath his shirt. "What was that you said about befriending monsters?" he asks, trying to distract himself.

"Oh? Well, the stories about him go on about how he often chose to spare those he was sent to kill, because he saw enough humanity in them. They say he was friends with many non-humans, even dopplers and — if you believe it — the occasional vampire." Regis smiles towards the end, as if what he's sharing is a secret.

"Doesn't sound like he was a very popular witcher then."

"On the contrary. A good number of people were grateful for his work, since he would rather lift a curse than kill a monster."

"That's what most witchers do," Geralt points out.

"Unfortunately not, from what I have learned," Regis objects with a sigh. "But what about you? Do you care more about saving the innocent or about getting paid?" His dark eyes are fixed to Geralt, and the question feels heavy.

"No one is ever innocent, not completely," Geralt says. "But far from everyone is guilty enough that they deserve to die. My job is to rid the world of monsters, but that doesn't always mean killing them."

Regis seems mostly pleased with his answer. "And what about today? Did you kill?"

Geralt nods. "I did. It was an ekimmara, lesser vampire, feral. Had already claimed several victims."

Regis holds up a hand. "There's no need to explain yourself to me. I understand," he says gently. "Speaking of today though, how is your leg?"

"It's alright," Geralt tells him, surprised that Regis even remembered. "Shouldn't take too long to heal. Witcher mutations and all."

"Of course. But feel free to let me know if you need any help with it. I've… dabbled in medicine, and I know not all witchers get along with hospitals, and vice versa."

Geralt's lips twitch into a smile. "Historian _and_ doctor? You must be a busy man, Regis."

The set of Regis' shoulders seem to grow stiff for a moment, before he relaxes again. "I've also an interest in herbs and alchemy, and I'm quite fond of reading. I've had a lot of time on my hands," he admits.

Geralt takes in the wrinkles, the silver hair and sideburns, and high hairline that frame Regis' face and signal his age. At the same time, his eyes are alert and curious, his movements fluid and smooth, contradicting the grey. "You're not that old," he tells him.

Regis smiles. "Unfortunately, I'm older than I look. But you of all people should know that appearances don't always betray someone's age."

Without thinking, Geralt's hand comes up to scratch the back of his white head. Age is a strange thing for a witcher, and for him more than most. He knows he will live to be way past a century, perhaps two, and still have enough vigor in him to fight monsters. Yet, his mutations made his hair white, and up until recently he always looked older than he was because of it. "Fair," he agrees, dropping his hand.

Silence falls between them for a moment, but it's comfortable rather than awkward.

"So," Regis says after taking a drink from his own vodka, "do you live here in the city? Or do you travel around, looking for work?"

Geralt gestures in the vague direction of his apartment. "Live a block away from here. Got an arrangement with the cops, they call me if a case is witcher's work and I get paid for getting rid of the killer."

"That sounds decent enough?" Regis remarks, but it sounds more like a question.

"Pay could be better," Geralt admits.

"Ah. Society really never has appreciated witcher's work, has it?"

"Not really." Geralt shakes his head. "What about you? You live here? Never seen you around before."

Regis leans back in his seat, a hand coming up to fiddle with a button on his jacket. "I came here not too long ago. It's been a while since I was this far north, however."

"What brings you here now then? Work?"

"No. It was simply time for a fresh start. But I might stay a while."

"Please do," Geralt finds himself saying. "City's full of assholes, would be good to lower that ratio, even if just a little."

Regis chuckles. "Oh my. Is that a compliment?"

Geralt grins. "Suppose it is."

 

They talk for a while longer about a little bit of this and that. Regis tells him a story of this Geralt of Rivia, and of how he was innocently accused of murdering an ancient Temerian king. Regis is a good storyteller, and Geralt finds himself wrapped up in the story. In turn, he tells Regis about some of his own jobs, but his chopped sentences and flat language feels inadequate in comparison. Still, Regis seems to appreciate it nonetheless.

Eventually it's late enough that the rest of the bar grows empty, and the bartender tells them she needs to close up for the night. It's fair, given that it's the middle of the week.

It's cold as they step outside, but Geralt's mutations as well as the alcohol buzzing pleasantly in his body keeps him warm enough. Regis doesn't seem bothered by the temperature either.

"This was nice," Regis says without looking at him. His words remain crisp, despite the drinks he's had. "I wouldn't mind repeating it, should you find yourself in need of a drinking partner."

Geralt doesn't hesitate to pull his phone from his pocket. He takes a moment to set up a new contact before handing it to Regis. "Your number?" he asks dumbly. Regis takes the phone, and Geralt doesn't miss how their fingers brush against each other as he does so. A moment later, his phone is handed back to him, and he sends the eloquent text _'Geralt's number'_ to the new contact before putting the phone back into his pocket.

"I'll see you around then, Geralt," Regis says. He's once again clutching the strap of his messenger bag, though this time it looks to be more of a relaxed habit than the painful grasp he had on it earlier today. Or yesterday, technically, given the time.

Geralt opens his mouth to answer, but finds himself suddenly fighting down the impulse to ask Regis to join him for the night. Regis is attractive, but he wouldn't usually be Geralt's type. And yet Geralt finds himself drawn to him somehow. Maybe it's just been too long since he got laid.

The words are right there on his tongue, but he doesn't say them. He doesn't want to make a stupid tipsy decision that could cost him a potential friend in this dreary city. And he doesn't want to offend Regis, should he have read things the wrong way. He clears his throat, swallowing the words before they break free. "Yeah," he says instead. "See you around."

Regis gives him another look that Geralt can't decipher, before offering a small smile and turning around, walking away into the night. Geralt lets out a shaky breath he wasn't aware he was holding, turns the other way and begins to walk home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trail takes him into the budding forest, until all sunlight is filtered through the crowns of the trees. Geralt can hear the movement of birds, squirrels and foxes, can smell the anthill a few paces from the trail and the badger sleeping in below the dirt. Yet, he doesn't hear as much as he should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, this is bad, I'm updating within a week, giving you guys unrealistic expectations about my productivity frequency... But oh well!
> 
> Thank you all so, so much for your comments and kind words, they are what makes me want to continue working on this!

That night, Geralt dreams of a campfire.

He sits by it, on a hilltop overlooking a lake. While he can't see it, he knows that there is a graveyard behind him. Yet, it doesn't feel eerie or uncomfortable. It's simply the backdrop to the scene he's been placed in. His clothes are familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, and there's a cup of alcohol in his hands.

And Regis is with him, sitting on the other side of the fire.

His hair is shorter for some reason, but it's unmistakably him. The light from the flames dances across his face and reflects in his dark eyes, and he looks so very real. Afterwards, Geralt can't remember what they talk about, but he does know that Regis smiles a lot.

 

When he wakes up, he knows there was something different about the dream. There was nothing strange about the setting; while that particular campfire hasn't featured in his dreams before, it's not a new theme. Regis is what marks the dream as different, Geralt knows this, he just can't put his finger on  _ why _ . He stays in bed, his brow furrowed, until it hits him that he has never before dreamed about a person that he has met. It has always been unfamiliar faces, if any. Until now. Letting out a frustrated sigh, Geralt gets up.

There are no new messages for him, and he considers just taking the day off. But a look at his bank account tells him that's not a great idea, so he types out a quick,  _ 'Any work for me?' _ and sends it to Webster. He sends it to captain Howard, the man in charge of the city's northern district, as well, and even to some of the neighbouring towns. Most likely, few will reply and even fewer will actually have something for him to do, but it's always worth a try.

While he waits for any of them to respond, Geralt puts on some coffee and goes to redress his wound. As he pokes at it, he can at least tell that the Black Blood has mostly left his system by now. He can kind of feel it in his body too, but looking at the blood itself is always the surest way of telling. Getting hurt during a job has its perks, sometimes. Rarely. But it happens.

He does bring out his clippers today, to trim down both his hair and beard. Not a clean shave, but enough to make him feel more presentable. Less shabby.

As he's cleaning up the cut hair, Geralt's eyes fall onto his medallion. It almost feels too small and light, after what he learned yesterday. His fingers come up to grasp it and he wonders if he had been wearing it in the dream, or if it had been that other, sharper medallion resting around his neck.

"Dammit," he mutters to himself, letting go of the amulet and shaking his head to clear it.

He returns to his phone to find a few new messages. Webster as well as a few others tell him that they have no work for him at the moment. Nothing from most of them though, including Howard. There does seem to be something worth looking into in Gooseby, a small town halfway to Oxenfurt. From what Geralt gathers, some graves have been opened and plundered there recently. Necrophages, probably. Why they didn't let a witcher know sooner he doesn't really understand, but then again he doesn't understand why people don't burn their dead either.

He lets the police chief of Gooseby know that he'll come take a look, and then begins packing. His belt bag has most of what he needs, but just in case it should turn out to be something other than necrophages he wants to bring a little extra rather than have to go back to Novigrad to get it. Once he has everything he needs, Geralt heads down to the garage.

It's an old thing, his motorcycle. But so is he, so he kind of finds it fitting. For some reason he's never really decided, he calls it the Roach, sort of as a joke. He wheels it out onto the street and then sets off for Gooseby.

Despite the chilly air, the wind feels good against his face as Geralt leaves Novigrad behind and hits the open road. Getting away from all the people and their hostility doesn't hurt either. He would be lying if he said it hasn't tempted him before, to get rid of everything he can't carry and just live on the road wherever the work might be. It's how witchers used to do it, and he sees the appeal. Not feeling welcome bothers you a lot less if it's in a new town than if it's in the city you call your home.

 

The drive to Gooseby takes about half an hour, and after talking with the local cops Geralt makes his way to the cemetery on the outskirts of town. The church is pretty large in relation to the town, but today it appears to be closed to visitors and worshippers of the Eternal Fire. Geralt walks around the building and understands why.

At least ten gravestones have been toppled over, and the ground has been dug through, dirt scattered all around. Some of it seems to be as fresh as to have been dug during last night, and some seem a little older, but no more than a week. Most likely, whatever creature did this only recently arrived and discovered this cemetery, and decided it would be an easy and continuous source for food.

Geralt approaches the mess, poking around for any traces or clues. He finds half a corpse that has been left in its coffin, tooth and claw marks where the rest of the body has been torn off. Around in the scattered dirt are several sets of tracks, going back and forth between the opened graves. Ghouls. At least three of them. The tracks lead away from the cemetery and into the cluster of trees that follows. If he's lucky, he might be able to track them to their lair and kill them while they sleep. It's not a fair fight, but it's not like they would grant him that courtesy either.

So he follows the trail.

It takes him into the budding forest, until all sunlight is filtered through the crowns of the trees. Geralt can hear the movement of birds, squirrels and foxes, can smell the anthill a few paces from the trail and the badger sleeping in below the dirt. Yet, he doesn't hear as much as he should. The ghouls' presence must have scared away at least half the wildlife.

As he moves through the woods, Geralt can't help but think about how much he prefers this over the city. While the wildlife makes its own noises, they're much more pleasant than the sounds of the city, and gentler on his heightened senses. And unlike the city, the forest and its residents know how to mind their own godsdamned business. Well. Unless you count the ghouls.

Eventually he reaches the end of the trail and the entrance to their nest, as his medallion begins to hum against his skin. The nest itself is inside a rocky little rise in the ground, with a hole dug through the dirt serving as an entrance. Geralt sighs, knowing he won't fit through. Even if he did, it doesn't look like there would be enough room to fight inside. He closes his eyes and inhales, trusting in everything except his sight for a moment. He can smell the foul stench of the ghouls, even through the ground, and that alone is enough to let him know that he's in the right place, medallion or no. But his ears also let him hear the rise and fall of each ghoul breathing. He counts four. Seems like one didn't join the rest at the cemetery.

Geralt opens his eyes again. His presence hasn't alerted the ghouls so far. As he applies necrophage oil to his dagger he decides that he can either sit down and wait for sunset, or… Or he can force them out into the daylight.

He takes out a smoke grenade from his bag and lights the fuse. It doesn't take long for billowing smoke to start coming out of it and while covering his mouth and nose with his free hand, Geralt rolls the bomb into the nest.

He backs up and brings out his gun. Then he waits.

He can hear the sounds of the ghouls waking and stirring inside the nest, growling and snarling against the smoke.

One of the creatures crawls out of the ground, shrieking as it enters the daylight. Good. Geralt takes a shot at it with his gun, hitting it in the head. Its skin and bones are a lot thinner than that of the ekimmara from yesterday, and the shot puts it down almost before it has pulled its body into the open air.

Smoke starts to come out of the nest in earnest now, almost completely obscuring the second ghoul as it exists. It's quicker than the first too, aware of its attacker. It shrieks, and jumps out from the nest, its misshapen body moving unnaturally fast. Geralt shoots at it, but misses the head and instead gets it in the shoulder. The creature stumbles, giving him enough time to adjust his aim and fell it for good.

But while Geralt is busy with that one, the other two have time to emerge from the nest. One of them lunges at him, and he ducks away, trying not to let the other one get behind him. He circles it, and as soon as they both are facing him, he shoots at one of them while stepping close to slash at the other with his blade. The necrophage oil eats away at the creature's flesh, making it shriek in pain. Geralt dances around it, aiming to take out its companion while it's distracted.

The other ghoul slashes at him with its claws, tearing up his sleeves but not reaching his skin. Geralt spins with the blow, and almost stumbles as his wounded leg sends a sting of pain up his body. But he manages to regain his balance enough to embed his dagger in the ghoul's back, piercing its lung from behind. He lets the dagger drag along the rib before pulling his arm back, and the ghoul falls to the ground once the dagger leaves its body. After that, it's quick work to slash the jugular of the last ghoul.

Once it's over and the adrenaline begins to fade, Geralt goes around the group, making sure that they're all dead. He doesn't want a repeat of yesterday. His wound is throbbing a little from the exertion, but it doesn't feel like it has torn open again. And he didn't get any new injuries either, which is always a good thing. Though his jacket will need more mending. He sighs. He just fixed it  _ yesterday _ . 

Geralt closes his eyes again to listen for more ghouls just in case, and once satisfied that there are none left he wipes his dagger on the grass. He pulls the dead bodies up next to each other, trying not to get too much of their gore on himself. If he can avoid having to clean everything again today, he will.

He crouches to the ground and feels the grass. It's damp, but not enough that it'd be safe to burn the bodies without risking catching fire to the surroundings. He stands again, and snaps a photo to send to the local police chief.

_ 'Took care of the ghouls that raided the cemetery. The bodies need to be dealt with, but can't burn them right here.' _

He could just leave them to rot, of course, but that would ruin the soil around them for quite some time. Seems a shame.

While he waits for a reply, Geralt looks around his surroundings. There isn't much of interest, but he does find a small cluster of wolfsbane. He picks it and puts it in his bag. A lot cheaper than buying it from an alchemist.

Eventually his phone buzzes, showing him the police chief's response:  _ 'I'll send a team. Just send me the coordinates and wait until they show.' _

Geralt does so, and while he waits he tries to argue the price for his work. The police chief is less stubborn than Webster, but since Geralt had to drive all the way out here, the sum of the day isn't anything to brag about. And people wonder why he keeps mending his equipment instead of buying new.

He doesn't have to wait as long as he expected before hearing a group of three people approaching through the trees. The team leader gives Geralt a nod of greeting before they begin to put the corpses in bags. Geralt helps them carry the dead ghouls back through the forest, and while they don't include him in their casual conversation, they seem appreciative enough of the help.

They need to make two trips to get all of the corpses, but soon enough they are done and the backdoor of the pest control van slams shut. As they're about to leave though, one of them locks eyes with Geralt and nods for him to come closer. He does.

The woman is heavily built, and doesn't look like she would let anyone mess with her. Yet, she crosses her arms and seems rather insecure as she speaks. "You kill a lot o' these things?" she asks, accent thick.

He shrugs. "Yeah. I'm a witcher, it's kind of what I do."

"Even when it isn't certain what it is you're killing?" Her gaze keeps darting between Geralt and the ground in front of her.

"Part of the job is to find out."

The woman is silent for a beat, before sighing and uncrossing her arms, then crossing them again. "See, there's these woods not too far from here, my son and I go huntin' there when it's season. Last time we was there though, there was signs of somethin' prowlin' around, somethin' dangerous."

"What signs?" Geralt asks.

"Claw marks on the trees, markin' up a territory probably. And yes, I know there's wolves in those woods, but wolves don't have claws like that. I've felled enough o' them myself to be able to tell."

"You think it's a monster? Has anyone been hurt?"

The woman shakes her head. "Not yet. But better safe than sorry I say."

"And who'll pay me for my time?"

"I will, if it turns out to be nothin'. And if you do find anythin', my friend in my huntin' party owns the land, he'll compensate you for gettin' rid o' the beast." She sets her chin a little higher, and holds his gaze for a bit longer.

Geralt thinks for a moment. He'll get paid even if he just checks it out. "Alright," he decides. "Text me the coordinates where you saw signs of the creature."

 

There's about a twenty-minute drive to the forest the woman sent him to, and another twenty minutes of walking through the woods before Geralt reaches the coordinates. But the sun is still high in the sky, and this day might turn out to yield quite a decent profit, even if there's nothing to hunt here.

He realises, however, that the woman was right. There is definitely something living in these woods. Something big. Something dangerous.

The tree in front of him is pretty sturdy, large enough that he wouldn't be able to wrap his arms around its trunk if he tried. Three long and deep gashes run diagonally across the trunk, splitting the bark. Sap has begun to gather in the deepest points of the lines, making the tree look wounded and bleeding. The claw-marks, for that is what they must be, are several inches apart from each other, and Geralt tries to imagine what kind of creature could be behind this. Nothing he has ever fought has had claws like that.

He is able to pick up a faint trail of scent, and follows it with great caution deeper into the woods. Around him, more trees have the same three-clawed mark, and there are smaller trees that have been felled by the same process. And as if the unknown creature wasn't enough, the area is also scattered with wolf tracks. Geralt draws his gun, just to be safe, and ventures on.

How much time that passes as he treks through the forest he isn't sure, but as he walks he can feel how his amulet slowly starts to vibrate. The warning puts him on high alert, though his senses can't yet pick up on any approaching creature. Geralt's heart starts to beat faster in his chest, and he spins in a slow circle, scanning the forest for signs of movement.

He hears a strange sound then, reminicent of wood creaking and bending, yet never breaking. He turns to face it, his medallion vibrating stronger and stronger.

A large, looming creature steps out from behind the trees, or perhaps from the trees themselves? The creature looks as if it was formed from the forest bed itself, made up of wood and bark and moss. It walks on two legs, towering over Geralt by a good several feet. The head is the bony skull of a large deer, though whether that is its actual head or just a helmet hiding something far more gruesome underneath is impossible to tell. Its elongated arms end in those dangerous claws that have left traces all over the forest, and now those claws are raised towards Geralt.

Never before has he fought such a creature, nor seen one. But he has seen them in pictures, in old illustrations. He thought leshens were supposed to be extinct.

The leshen is still a few yards away from him, and Geralt keeps his gun aimed at its head. It wails then, a shrieking, painful sound coming from a mouth that can't be seen, right before it lunges at him. Geralt pulls the trigger on his pistol, but the creature is far faster than he expected. Before he knows it, it's right in front of him, and Geralt feels a searing hot pain in his right side and he cries out as the leshen slashes at him with those wicked claws.

As sudden as it appeared, the leshen is gone, and Geralt's pain sends him to the ground.

His pulse is pounding in his ears as he reaches for his bag, bringing out a potion vial. His fingers tremble as he opens it and downs its contents. Swallow, a potion as expensive as it is ancient. He only saves it for emergencies. Like now.

He presses his hand to his side and when he removes it he finds it covered in red. It's hard to tell the wounds' exact size because of the pulsating pain, but he knows it's bad. His jacket is shredded, and he knows the claws would have reached his organs if not for the protection it offered. He would be dead.

The seconds that pass feel like minutes until the effects of the Swallow kick in; the pain fades slightly and the bleeding slows. But Geralt knows it's only temporary, and he will need to do something about the wound before he bleeds out. At least the leshen seems to have abandoned him, deeming its home safe from intruders once more. Geralt needs to get away before it realises it hasn't killed him, but before he can go anywhere, he needs to patch himself up.

Methodically, he forces himself to take off his jacket and shirt — ripping it down the front, because pulling it over his head is not a good idea right now — and brings out all the bandages he has with him. He folds the ruined shirt and presses it against his side and back, hoping he covers most of the wounds; the largest portion of them are on his back where he can't see. Once he's satisfied with the shirt's position, he starts to bind it in place with the bandages. The tight wrap around his stomach and lower rib cage makes breathing a bit uncomfortable, but it's better than bleeding to death. With the bandage as good as it's going to get, Geralt puts his jacket back on and begins to stumble back through the forest as fast as he can.

He's determined, but the pain and the fact that he can't risk any sharp movements slows him down. Again time becomes difficult to track, but he is pretty sure that the walk back to his bike takes at least twice as long as it did in the other direction.

But eventually he reaches the Roach. Geralt sighs in relief and straddles the bike, bending forwards and leaning his forehead against the handlebars to catch his breath. He lifts his jacket open to asses the damage after a few moments. There's blood seeping through the bandages and he can feel the pain returning. Deciding he really doesn't need a biking accident on the way home, he downs another vial of Swallow. He knows he can't take too much, or that in itself will kill him, but he should still be in the clear.

Geralt looks at the bandages again. He needs stitches, that much is obvious. And the angle is going to be a damn challenge. He sighs, realising a hospital is his only option here, or–

Or.

Didn't Regis say something last night about dabbling in medicine?

Geralt shakes his head at himself. He just met the man, he can't go begging for him to stitch up his wounds. It isn't fair, and it definitely makes for a pretty crappy foundation for any sort of relationship. But at a hospital he's going to have to deal with staff who don't understand how his body works and who won't listen to him about it, which is about as dangerous as him not going there at all. Geralt brings out his phone and opens up the contact with Regis' name on it. He stares at it for a while, thumb hovering over the green little icon. After a moment there's a sharp sting of pain from his back that reminds him he doesn't have much time, and he presses 'call', putting the phone to his ear.

A few signals pass before Regis picks up. "Geralt? I didn't expect to hear from you so soon," he says, and Geralt thinks he hears a smile in Regis' voice. Or he might be imagining it. He doesn't know.

"Hey, Regis," he greets, and hears how strained his own voice sounds.

Regardless of whether he had been smiling or not, Regis voice is now full of concern. "Are you alright?" he asks.

"Not really," Geralt replies. "Had a run-in with something I didn't expect. If you were serious about that offer of medical help, I could really use some stitches."

"Of course," Regis assures, almost before Geralt has even finished speaking. "Where are you? I'll be there as soon as I'm able."

Geralt shakes his head before he realises Regis can't see it. "No," he says then. "I'm way out of town. Need to get back. Could you meet me at my place in about… Forty minutes? Know that probably sounds–"

"I'll meet you there," Regis interrupts. "What's the address?"

Geralt tells him.

"Drive safely," Regis says, worry still commanding his voice.

"Yeah," Geralt half-promises, and ends the call. He puts his phone back into his pocket and steels himself as he puts the keys in the ignition and lets the Roach roar to life beneath him.

 

Geralt wants to be off the bike by the time the second dose of Swallow wears off. In reality, the ride back to Novigrad is faster than the ride out of it was, but it feels like an eternity. Yet even that eternity comes to an end as he passes the familiar streets of the city, finally rolling into the garage that is part of his apartment building. He leaves the bike and walks towards the front door.

Before he gets there, he spots Regis waiting for him, brows furrowed and jaw clenched. When he notices Geralt he comes to meet him, eyes landing on the torn side of his jacket.

"Dear gods, Geralt," he says. "What happened?" Then he shakes his head before Geralt has time to answer. "No matter. You can tell me later. Let's get you inside."

"Sorry for calling you," Geralt apologises as he shows Regis into the building. "You don't have to do this."

"Nonsense," Regis objects. "I could hardly let you deal with this on your own."

Geralt doesn't want to argue. "Thanks," he says instead, and they walk up the two flights of stairs. He unlocks his apartment door when they get there, letting Regis inside. "Light in the kitchen okay to work in?" he asks dropping his bag on the tarp that still lays unfolded in the corner. 

"It'll do just fine," Regis says, taking off his messenger bag and putting it on the kitchen table. Geralt doesn't know what was in it yesterday, but now it seems to contain medical supplies.

Geralt pulls out a chair and sits down on it backwards, leaving his back and side exposed. He unzips his jacket and shrugs it off, letting it drop to the floor next to him. "Patched it up best I could, but it's gonna need a bit of work," he says. He begins to unwind the bandages, aware of Regis moving about behind him.

He hears a gasp as more and more of the bandages come off and he thinks that maybe it's even worse than it feels. He shakes the thought, not wanting to think of the consequences that that could have.

"So," he says as he dumps the last bandage on the floor, along with the ruined shirt. "How bad is it, doc?"

"Well. It's going to take some time, that's for certain," Regis tells him and pulls up a chair of his own.

Geralt leans forward against the back of his chair, closing his hands into fists as Regis begins to disinfect the wounds. It stings, but Regis works faster than Geralt usually does when he patches himself up.

"I'm going to start with the stitches now," he announces soon enough, and his words are followed by the sensation of the needle piercing Geralt's skin. He feels it, but compared to the burning pain in his wounds, it's nothing. The Swallow is beginning to fade again, and while the bleeding seems to still be held at bay, the pain is not. Regis' fingers are cool against Geralt's back as he works, and Geralt tries to focus on that instead.

Regis finishes with the first gash, tying off the thread slightly above where Geralt's rib cage ends, in the middle of his right side. "You're lucky this thing didn't slice through your bones," he remarks, the first words he has said since he began stitching. Geralt assumed he wanted to focus on the task.

"Yeah," Geralt agrees. Behind him, he can hear Regis cutting a new thread. "Should have seen what it did to the trees."

"What manner of creature was it?" Regis asks as he begins stitching along the second gash in Geralt's skin, the fingers of his other hand holding the edges together.

"Leshen," Geralt says, pushing some stray hair out of his face. "Thought they were extinct. Never seen one before, caught me by surprise."

Regis hums in acknowledgement behind him. "And yet you managed to kill it?"

Geralt shakes his head. "No. Was the strangest thing. It attacked me and just left. Guess it thought I was as good as dead."

"That's strange indeed. But you should still count yourself lucky that it happened. Had it not left it may very well have killed you." Regis' voice sounds strained towards the end.

"I know," Geralt tells him. "I'll need a better strategy next time."

For the first time since he begun, Regis' hands grow still against Geralt's back. "You're going after it again?"

Geralt huffs. "Have to. Can't just let it roam free, knowing it's that dangerous."

Regis resumes his work before he speaks. When he does, his words feel loaded. "What if it kills you?"

"It's always a risk," Geralt admits. "But next time I won't be surprised."

"You cannot go after it again, Geralt," Regis says, his voice catching on something. Then he clears his throat. "Not until this has healed, at the very least."

"Yeah, I know."

There's a moment of silence, and when Regis speaks again Geralt thinks he can hear a smile in his voice. "Good. Because despite your apparent recklessness, I quite like you already."

"Thanks," Geralt says with a slight smile on his own. After a beat, he adds, "Feeling's mutual. Save for the part with the 'apparent recklessness'."

Geralt thinks he hears Regis chuckle at that, but afterwards there is mostly silence as he keeps working.

Finally, Regis ties off this thread as well, this time by Geralt's hipbone. "There," he says. "The hard part's over. Now, where do you keep your clean towels?"

It takes Geralt a moment to answer as he briefly wonders why he only has two gashes. Then he shakes his head, both to clear it and to respond. "I can wash myself, Regis."

"And rip your stitches in the process? No way. Towels?"

Geralt rolls his eyes, but he isn't annoyed, not really. "Under the bathroom sink. Bathroom's the door on the right."

"Thank you," Regis says, standing from his chair and going to get the towels. While he's away, Geralt leans back a bit, rolling his shoulders to get some of the stiffness out of them. The Swallow has worn off completely by now, but Regis' stitches and Geralt's own accelerated healing keep the wounds from bleeding. Doesn't do much about the pain though.

Regis returns, and Geralt can hear him turn on the water in the kitchen sink. Moments later, the damp towel is dabbing away at his skin, presumably taking the smeared blood away with it.

At some point Geralt tries to argue again that he can do this himself, but Regis is having none of it, simply keeps rinsing the towel and cleaning away the blood, over and over again until he's satisfied.

When he's done, he cuts strips of gauze pad, and systematically covers Geralt's stitches with them, fixing them with medical tape. Then, he gives a gentle pat to an uninjured part of Geralt's back. "All done." He begins packing up his bag as he continues to speak. "It should heal rather well, especially if you don't strain it for a while. That means no witcher's work."

"I still need to eat, you know," Geralt points out as he stands from his chair, his back and legs stiff from being still for so long.

"For a few days at least," Regis suggests as Geralt turns to face him. "Please?"

Geralt sighs. "Fine." For a moment, he feels exposed under the weight of Regis gaze, and he clears his throat. "Um. I'll take care of this soon," he gestures to the considerable pile of bloodied cotton pads on the kitchen table, "you go wash your hands."

Regis looks at him for another second, then nods, heading towards the bathroom.

Before doing anything else, Geralt goes to his bedroom to find something to wear. A hoodie rests on the back of a chair, and he puts it on, zipping it closed. He returns to the kitchen, where Regis is already waiting.

"You sure you don't want help cleaning this up?" Regis asks.

Geralt shakes his head, but smiles. "Got a lot of time to kill if I won't be working for a few days," he says.

"I suppose that's fair."

Unsure what to do with his hands, Geralt puts them in the pockets of his hoodie as his smile fades. He looks at Regis, then looks away. "I… Thanks for this, Regis. Really. Let me know if I can ever repay the favor."

"Don't mention it," Regis tells him. "I offered, and like I said, good people are hard to come by. I would like to see that they survive. Though," he adds after a moment, "I do hope our next meeting is under more pleasant circumstances."

Geralt's smile returns to his lips. "Yeah, me too."

Regis clears his throat "I'd best be on my way then," he says, heading for the door. "Goodbye, Geralt. And do try not to rip your stitches."

"Bye. And I make no promises."

Regis smiles and shakes his head as he closes the door behind him and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case someone wonders about geography: I've assumed the game map is very compressed, as game maps tend to be, and that the distances are actually far larger than they appear in-game. I've also assumed that towns and forests will have changed and developed during the time that has passed, which is why this wasn't really a forest that you'd find in-game. Hope it's not too annoying for anyone!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While he's healed enough to take the bandages off, Geralt knows he's in no shape to fight yet. Instead he settles for researching. Almost everything is vulnerable to something; he just has to find out what that is in the case of the leshen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading so far, and an extra thanks to those of you who have left a comment or two! It's what keeps me writing, you guys are amazing!
> 
> Here's a chapter for all of y'all who aren't doing anything specific this new years, for those who are and make this their hangover reading in the morning, and for those who are in a different time zone or reading this some other day for whom it'll have nothing to do with new years at all.
> 
> It's a bit of a snippets chapter I guess, but I didn't think each full day of Geralt's recovery was going to make for interesting writing or reading so.

After Regis leaves, Geralt gets to work with cleaning up. The pile of cotton pads gets shoved into a trash bag and then he fills up a bucket with cold water, in which he begins to rinse the blood out of the bandages and shirt. The piece of clothing is unusable in its current state, but he figures he can at least wash it and repurpose it for rags.

He wipes away the worst of the blood from his leather jacket then, trying to assess the damage done to it. The slashes from the leshen are by far the biggest issues, but as he looks over it Geralt is also reminded by the scratches the ghouls gave him on the sleeves. There's going to be a lot of work mending it, but it's not like he'll be able to go out on a hunt any time soon anyway. At least he'll be somewhat busy. Geralt sighs and shakes his head; optimism isn't really doing it for him.

He sends off a text to the woman who asked him to investigate the forest, telling her that he ran into trouble and will get rid of the problem as soon as he can, and that until he does, no one should visit the forest. Once it's sent, he puts himself to work.

 

The rest of that day moves slowly, as does the following. Geralt mends his jacket, working first on patching the lining and thick padding, and then finally the top layer of leather. Several times during the process he finds himself wondering how bad of a shape he would have been in if the padding had been thinner. And he spends some time researching armoured vests too. Some of the witchers he met when he was training liked to wear them, but he's always been worried it's going to affect his mobility enough to be more of a hindrance than an asset. The throbbing wounds on his back however, make him rethink it and he decides to at least see if he can try some out once he's better.

He leaves his apartment for a little while on the second day, to buy some groceries and ingredients for a new batch of Swallow potion. The latter takes him to a small store on the other side of Novigrad, located on the basement level of an old building. The small windows are covered by heavy curtains, the only light inside artificial. The main room is an onslaught to Geralt's sense of smell, the scents of at least a hundred different kinds of dried herbs mixing with the incense burning on the counter as well as each distinct scent of the different kinds of woods and candles resting on the shelves. Despite this, Geralt finds the store quite pleasant. No one looks at him strangely here where everyone are a little strange themselves.

The store is frequented by those who still practice alchemy or herbalism in private, instead of succumbing to the large companies that mix the old crafts with new sciences and capitalising on the product. Druids come here too, because even though none of their people have been able to use magic for a long time they still hold their traditions and rituals close to their hearts. In fact, Geralt is pretty sure the people who run the store are druids themselves. Right now, Geralt is alone in the store, save for the cashier.

He finds the celandine and other ingredients that he needs for the Swallow, including some alcohol to brew it with. The cashier — a young elf woman — has served Geralt enough times to know that he's not one for small talk, and simply registers the items on the counter and gives him his total. As he takes his bag and leaves she wishes him good luck on the path, but no further pleasantries and Geralt is perfectly happy with that. He thanks her and then goes on his way.

Once he gets home he sets to brewing the Swallow. It's a slow process, and he tries to relax while it's brewing. He makes some tea with a little bit of the celandine too; regular painkillers never seem to work for him, but raw herbs tend to help. The tea does alleviate some of the pain pulsing through his back, and makes him a bit drowsy too. As soon as the Swallow is finished, he calls it an early night.

 

When he sleeps, Geralt dreams like he always does. In the dreams he finds himself in places he knows he's never been to, that yet seem familiar. He walks down streets where he recognises the twisting paths but not the towering buildings, and he sits by campfires knowing he's among friends yet unable to make out their faces.

Well. That last bit isn't entirely true anymore. Sometimes one of the hazy figures will take on the shape of Regis, telling a story or laughing with the others. The first night he helps Geralt with a wound he knows he's never had, but when Geralt wakes up he is still surprised to touch the patch of skin and not find any scar.

 

On the third morning, Geralt decides he can't keep washing off in the bathroom sink anymore, so he takes a shower. The warm water makes the medical tape loosen from his skin, and he peels off the large and improvised band-aids from his back. The wounds have healed enough that he doesn't feel too bad about going without bandages.

Afterwards, he stands with his back to the mirror, craning his head around to try and get a good look. Regis' work is neat and flawless, but the gashes themselves are still gruesome. Both start just to the right of his spine and curve their way down his back and around to his side. Geralt doesn't want to think about how close he might have been to a far worse fate.

While he's healed enough to take the bandages off, Geralt knows he's in no shape to fight yet. Instead he settles for researching. Almost everything is vulnerable to something; he just has to find out what that is in the case of the leshen.

He begins online, but most of what he finds look like old wives' tales and legends, different regional myths and beliefs that don't really add up with each other. Then again, he didn't expect much; most information you can find online about drowners is bullshit too, and they are about as common as monsters go. There is one old book that seems promising, but the pages on leshens aren't scanned. It looks like it might be found at the Novigrad City Library though. Geralt makes a mental note of that, but before he goes anywhere, he figures he should at least hear with his fellow witchers if they know anything.

He gets in touch with Henrik quicker than he thought he would. The gruff old man helped train him back when Geralt was a fresh witcher up at Morhen Valley and knows more about monsters than anyone else Geralt has ever come across. But when it comes to leshens, his knowledge seems to fail.

"No witcher has fought a leshen in two, three hundred years," he says when Geralt calls him. "Not that I've heard of, at least. Industrialisation either drove them off, or into extinction."

Geralt huffs at that. "The one I met was pretty far from extinct."

"Are you sure it really was a leshen that you saw?" Henrik asks.

"Looked like it was part of the woods, had claws long as my arms and a head like a dead deer. I've seen the same illustrations as you, and it was just like them. I know what I saw, just don't know how to fight it."

Henrik sighs. Geralt can picture him pinching his brow in concentration. "All I can think of is fire," he says after a moment. "Sorry, Geralt, I haven't read much about them. Even my own teachers didn't think it'd be necessary knowledge."

"It's alright," Geralt assures. "Thanks anyway."

"I didn't really help much. You'd best be careful, son."

"Yeah, yeah. When am I not?"

 

After saying goodbye to Henrik and wishing him good luck with his own hunting, Geralt heads for the city library to try and find the old book. He doesn't want to chance too much on the book actually being relevant, or even being in the system at all. But at least it seems old and niche enough that no one else will likely be interested in it. As he walks through the city, he makes a point of being as discreet and direct as he can; he's not working, and he doesn't want to have to explain why in case someone would come screaming for a witcher's help. It's not something that happens often, but given his luck he wouldn't be surprised if it happened right now.

Thankfully, the walk to the library is uneventful. Geralt keeps his hood up even when he gets there, feeling even more awkward in the quiet space. Not because he can't be quiet himself, but because the reactions of others will feel so much more prominent here. He heads straight for a terminal to try and minimise his interaction with others, but while he does find the book, he finds it marked as archived. Seems interacting with strangers is unavoidable after all.

Geralt makes his way over to the reception desk and asks for the book. The librarian heads off to find it in the archives, leaving him to stand and wait. He puts his hands in his pockets and tries not to count the seconds as they pass.

"Geralt?"

The familiar voice has him spinning around, and he comes to face Regis, who is currently just placing some books onto a cart.

"Regis. Hi," he says, hating how blunt he sounds. "Didn't know you worked here."

"Well, something has to pay the rent," Regis says with a smile. "How have you been? How are your stitches?"

"Healing alright," Geralt says, shrugging with the shoulder that hurts the least. "Thanks again for that. I'd be a mess if not for you."

"Oh, don't mention it. I'm just happy to be of assistance. Speaking of, do you need any help?"

Geralt is confused for a brief moment before he understands and shakes his head. "Looking for a book. Someone's already gone to get it though."

"I see. Might I ask what you're reading?" Regis wonders, his gentle smile still in place. Geralt can't remember the last time someone asked him something so trivial as what book he's reading. It's… a nice change of pace.

"Hoping to do some research on the leshen," he explains. "Need to know what'll hurt it."

Regis opens his mouth to say something, but his colleague picks that moment to return with Geralt's book. Geralt thanks her, and when he turns to Regis again, his back is turned and he is busy helping another visitor.

While Geralt doesn't enjoy being out in public, he has also never bothered to get himself a library card. So he goes to find a somewhat secluded nook of the library, where he sits down with the book. It's old and a little bit dusty, despite the librarian's obvious attempts at wiping it off before she brought it out. The pages are yellowed and more than a little frayed, Geralt notices as he opens it.

The title was first published several centuries ago, he learns, though this version came out a little less than a hundred years ago. It's a bestiary of creatures that came into the world after the conjunction, and while it's far from complete and misinformed in places, Geralt is surprised that he hasn't seen a volume in the library back in the training facility of Morhen Valley.

The section on the leshen mostly goes into the mythology that surrounds it and various stories about people who encountered one or villages that were plagued by one's presence. Hidden in the stories it is apparent that fire harms a leshen as much as it harms a forest, confirming Henrik's idea. But unfortunately that seems to be the only weakness he can find about the creature.

The illustrations that decorate some of the pages are accurate as far as Geralt can tell, and while the texts exaggerate the length of the beast's claws quite a bit, the illustrations remain realistic. Still, even then the claws are long enough to block Geralt off before he can get close enough to deliver a killing blow with his dagger. He finds himself understanding why the witchers of old relied on swords as their main weapon, regardless of what was the most common weapons at the time. When fighting monsters with claws like that, you need something to match.

A silver sword isn't something Geralt can find on short notice, however, and even if it was he wouldn't really know how to wield one. He'll have to rely on his gun to get the range he needs. In addition to finding something that can set fire to the leshen without burning down the whole forest, of course.

It's about an hour later when Geralt concludes that he has read everything on leshens in the book. As he goes to return it to the front desk, it's Regis who meets him.

"Did you find anything interesting?" he asks as he takes the book.

"Nothing I didn't already know," Geralt admits.

"I'll see if I can find something useful whenever I have a moment over," Regis offers. It's so matter-of-fact that Geralt forgets to deny the help. Regis shouldn't go out of his way to help Geralt more than he already has. Before Geralt has the time to say anything, Regis speaks up again, though his gaze is less steady. "You know, I was wondering if you would like to have drinks together again? Perhaps tonight?"

Geralt is caught off guard for a moment before he offers a smile. "I'm not busy," he says. "Same place as last time?"

Regis returns the smile. "Sounds good to me."

 

Later that evening Geralt finds Regis in the pub they talked in just a few days ago. It's strange, he thinks. It feels like it's been so much longer. The place is a lot more crowded now than it was then, given that it's now Friday night, but they still manage to find a booth to sit in.

"I have to say," Regis begins as they sit down with their drinks, "I much prefer talking you without the pressure of knowing your life is in my hands."

"Likewise," Geralt says, his lips curling into a slight smile. "Not that I don't trust you, but you know. Still." He pauses for a moment. "So. Medic and historian I knew, but librarian too?"

Regis shrugs. "Like I said, it pays the bills. And my history knowledge largely stems from spending quite a lot of time with books."

"That's fair," Geralt agrees. "Though I'm curious, is there anything you focus on? Like how I'm a witcher before I'm anything else."

Regis falls silent into what seems to be contemplation. He looks at his hands, then at Geralt. "I think you're much more than just a witcher," he says. And before Geralt can ask him what he means, he continues, "I don't like to consider myself more of one thing than the other. I'm privileged enough to have been able to try something new once I got tired of one thing. Wouldn't you like to try something else, if you could?"

Geralt shakes his head. "Doesn't matter whether or not I'd like to. A witcher is a witcher for life." His smile returns then, if a bit more faint than before. "And I'm good at getting rid of monsters. Can't quit when I know people still need my help."

"That's very noble of you," Regis comments.

It's Geralt's turn to shrug. "Just what anyone would do."

 

During the days that pass while Geralt remains banned from witcher work, he ends up talking with Regis quite a lot. Sometimes it's over drinks and sometimes it's just through texts, but regardless, Regis becomes a steady presence in Geralt's life. It's been a long time since Geralt had anything like this. When he was a witcher-in-training he lived closely with other witchers, young and old, but since he set off on the path he's been pretty much on his own. He's never been much of a roommate candidate, and while he's had both friends and lovers they have stayed at a distance. Maybe it's just because Geralt has been running off on hunts as soon as an opportunity presented itself and now he can't, but… He doesn't think that that's the only reason. It can't be. Regardless, Geralt ends up enjoying the company. And he learns from Regis too.

"What am I supposed to do, throw a torch at it?" Geralt says one day, while he's once again trying to figure out how to best fight the leshen.

Regis looks at him with confusion. "Why don't you just use signs?"

"Signs?" Geralt asks, just as confused.

"Witcher signs," Regis clarifies. It doesn't help.

"What's that going to do?"

"Well, set fire to it, I had hoped."

Geralt keeps frowning. "Is this another witcher history thing I don't know about?" During their conversations, Regis has turned out to know a lot more than Geralt, both regarding general history and witcher history. Sometimes, Geralt wonders when Regis has had the time to read everything.

Regis puts his fingertips together. "You know about the signs' existence, at least?"

"There are mentions of five or seven signs, each one has a name or a symbol, but no one really knows what functions they used to serve. They're ancient," Geralt recites.

"They're– They _were_ a form of magic. Witchers used them to take down foes for the most part, but sometimes to get out of other tricky situations as well. The igni sign, for example–" Regis brings out a pen as he speaks, and draws a symbol on a napkin, sliding it over to Geralt. "–was used to set fires. Sometimes for utility, sometimes as a weapon."

The symbol is familiar; a triangle rendered incomplete by a gap at the top point. Geralt saw it when he was taught witcher history in his youth, but he never knew it was tied to magic. He traces his finger along the symbol. "I wonder when we lost that ability," he says.

"So do I," Regis admits. "I suppose it must have happened as magic faded from the world. As far as I know, these were used back when there were still sorceresses."

"Makes sense, I guess," Geralt agrees. "But it would be pretty handy to still have it."

 

He tries to figure out how to use the sign a few times, tries tracing it in the air or on a surface, tries the sign on its own and in combination with speaking its name. But no fire is ever lit, and he accepts the fact that witcher signs are not a part of the world anymore. The closest he gets is when he draws the sign in the air one time, and can _feel_ somehow that he's doing it just right. There's a pleasant warmth at his fingertips, but it's more of a memory than anything else. Old witcher instincts, Geralt assumes.

 

More than once over the course of these days, Geralt is struck with the realisation of how much he enjoys Regis' company. And not just his company, Geralt likes Regis, period. He likes how he talks and how he tells his stories, how his dark eyes light up when he smiles. He likes how, despite the short time they've known each other, Regis feels like an old friend.

Geralt has never been all that good with words, always feeling that actions speak so much louder. He keeps finding himself wanting to let Regis know how much their friendship means to him, but never being able to come up with the right way to say it. And maybe it's for the best. Because he also keeps wanting more, keeps entertaining the thought of maybe being something more than platonic. But while he knows that Regis must like him to some degree, he doesn't know if his feelings span the same extent.

So he says nothing.

He steals glances now and then, looks at Regis' hands and tries to remember how they felt against the skin of his back, looks at Regis' lips when he smiles and tries to not wonder what they would feel like against his own. And when Regis gets that melancholy, longing look in his eyes, which happens from time to time, Geralt tries not to wonder what he's thinking about, or who.

But despite all of this, Geralt is content, more so than he has been in a long while. Regis is a good friend and someone he trusts, and Geralt is not about to jeopardise it simply because he's greedy.

 

As time passes, the wounds on Geralt's back heal, and soon enough he's ready to start working again. He has a few jobs waiting for him that are simple enough; getting rid of a few drowners in the northern parts of Novigrad, taking care of a nightwraith outside Oxenfurt and clearing some kikimores from an abandoned building. Regis orders him to be careful before he sets out each time, and whether it's that or just pure luck Geralt doesn't know, but he comes out unharmed from all fights. Only his equipment needs patching, but he's relatively fine with doing that when it's not covered in his own blood.

While working as normal, he also keeps looking for ways to use fire against the leshen. He hasn't heard from the hunter woman yet, but he knows that the clock is ticking and that he needs to deal with the problem as soon as he can. He looks into bullets that incinerate the target, but those turn out to be illegal even with a witcher licence. And even if they weren't, he doubts his usual manufacturer would make them for him. He looks into using a crossbow instead, where the bolts are easier to modify than the bullets for his gun. But he knows from experience how slow a crossbow can be to reload, and if he misses his first shot the leshen might get to him before he even has the time to fire another.

In the end, he settles for some good old alchemy. With a little input from Regis as well as from a fellow witcher called Domi, he manages to make a sort of bomb. The idea is to throw a small bottle of flammable liquid at the leshen, with an ignitor in the bottle itself, that will be triggered as the glass breaks. It's risky, since Geralt may very well catch fire himself if the leshen breaks any bottles while they're still strapped to him, but it's accessible.

However, there is still the issue of possibly setting the rest of the forest on fire as well. The last few days have been rainy, but that's no guarantee that a fire won't spread. Geralt ends up going out to buy a fire extinguisher as well as a fire blanket and packs them in an additional bag that he'll be able to drop as soon as the fighting starts. It hurts his wallet a bit and it's a pretty shitty precaution, but it's the best he can come up with. Regis tells him of another witcher sign, one that could control the air and was quite often used to put out fires, and Geralt can't help but think that being a witcher back when there was magic in the world must have been so much easier.

 

When Geralt's back has healed enough to no longer be sore, he decides it's time to go after the leshen again. He has received no other work opportunities that day, and all his gear is in order. Once everything is packed, he heads down to the Roach in the garage and wheels it out onto the street. Before he sets off, he sends a quick text to Regis, _'Going after the leshen. Call you after.'_

He gets a reply before he even has the time to take a seat, _'Be careful. And good luck.'_

Geralt smiles as he puts his phone away, and then hits the road.

It's an overcast day, the skies still cloudy from the rain the day before. Yet, people seem to be taking advantage of the weekend and Geralt is far from the only one leaving Novigrad. As he gets further away from the city and closer to the woods however, traffic thins out, and by the time he arrives at the forest and turns off the engine, no other vehicle can be heard around him. Instead, Geralt is surrounded by the sounds of the forest, the creaking trees and chirping birds.

Less small birds and more ravens and crows, he notices, and some of them seem to be squabbling. He remembers then, as he begins to trek into the forest, that some myths on the leshen mentioned them being followed by crows. That might mean the leshen is still in the area then. Good. Though he has no idea what the ravens might indicate. Perhaps this was simply their territory first.

He tracks his way through the woods, following the same slashed trees as last time. Only now, he also follows the cawing of the crows. He finds the area where the leshen attacked him, with traces of his own blood still on the ground. As he stands there, Geralt is sure he hears something move among the trees, but as he looks around he sees nothing and his medallion remains still against his chest. Just an animal then. Geralt shakes his head, and keeps walking, venturing deeper into the forest. He can hear the crows up ahead, and thinks he spots more marked trees in the same direction.

As the noises of the crows grow louder, Geralt begins to be able to make out their shapes in the distance. They look like they're swarming around something, cawing as they fly in circles around a tall shape in a small clearing. At the top of the figure is the dead skull of a deer.

Geralt lowers himself closer to the ground as he approaches, and he's so focused on being silent that it takes him a moment to notice that the figure up ahead is completely still. It's not the leshen at all, he realises as he comes closer, but some sort of statue. He glances around the clearing, and deeming it safe enough, he steps out into it.

The crows screech as they notice him, and take off, dispersing in a flurry of feathers and disappearing into the woods or up into the air. Geralt thinks he spots a single raven amongst them, but it too flies away before he can be sure.

With an almost eerie silence now falling over the clearing, Geralt steps closer to the statue. It resembles a leshen in size, but now that he can take a better look at it he realises it's less of a statue and more of a… shrine. It's assembled with rocks and branches, decorated by moss, pebbles and bones. The crown of the piece is the deer skull, but its hollow eye sockets are simply dead, and hide no sign of supernatural life within them.

All in all, the shrine seems harmless. But the way the crows gathered around it and the fact that the leshen either put it up by itself, or that someone out there finds the leshen awe-inspiring enough to worship is enough to make Geralt feel the urge to destroy it. It's not unlikely that the shrine's presence makes the leshen stronger.

Geralt looks at the shrine for a moment longer, then looks around the clearing. He's still alone. He looks at the shrine again and makes his decision.

The skull comes off easily, and Geralt throws it to the ground. The rocks and branches that make up the foundation of the shrine have been made to withstand the forces of the wind, but not the force of someone actively pushing it over. It tumbles apart, and all that's left of the shrine is now a pile of rubble on the ground. Geralt drops the bag with the fire extinguisher onto the ground, draws his gun in one hand, and pulls a bottle bomb from his belt. If he's right and the shrine did give power to the leshen, it's bound to be angry that someone tore it down. He turns around and scans the treeline surrounding the clearing, searching for his foe.

At first, there is nothing, so Geralt waits. He keeps on his toes, walking slowly around the clearing, turning constantly to scan the forest for signs of movement. He knows the leshen is nearby, can feel it watching him, yet he can neither hear nor see it. More time passes, and his medallion starts to tremble against his skin.

"Come on," Geralt mutters, his patience beginning to wear thin. "I'm right here, you ugly bastard. Show yourself."

The vibrations in his medallion grow stronger, and the sensation of being watched grows with it. Geralt spins around, just as the leshen steps out from the trees.

There's no time to waste.

Geralt throws the bottle at the creature, the glass shattering on its shoulder. There's a flash, and suddenly flames are spreading over the leshen's body. It shrieks, a painful and terrible sound, before its body dematerialises, turning into a thick, dark smoke. Geralt takes a step back, not anticipating that. The smoke drifts towards Geralt, and just as quick it forms into the leshen again. Its wooden body is burnt and singed where the flames licked it, so while the fire is put out for now, at least it seemed to do some damage.

The leshen lashes out with its claws, but this time, Geralt is faster. He steps back and out of reach, pulling out a second bottle bomb in the process. He keeps backing up, and throws the bottle as soon as he dares.

The bottle impacts, against the leshen's head this time. It shrieks once more, pain laced with fury, raw and absolute. It brings its arm up to its head, almost clawing at its own skeletal face as it turns into smoke again.

The smoke moves with angry, jerky motions now, and darts towards Geralt with greater speed than before. He backs away again, but doesn't make it all the way. As the leshen reforms, it lashes out towards him, slashing across his front. Geralt's heart is racing in his chest and he reaches for his last bottle bomb, slamming it against the leshen's body despite being too close to it. As the flames start and the leshen cries out in pain, he ducks down and rolls away, looking back to see it turn into smoke again.

For a moment he thinks he must have hit his head and is seeing double. Then he realises that he isn't, and that there are, in fact, two clouds of smoke in the clearing. One is the angry grey belonging to the leshen, and the other is darker and more fluid, with almost a blue tint to it. A second later, the leshen has reformed once more, and seems ready to throw itself at Geralt again.

But a strange sound echoes through the clearing, and the leshen looks down at its own chest.

A set of long claws, long enough to rival the leshen's own, are sticking out of it, right where its heart should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing in fictional worlds is so frustrating sometimes. Can I even use the word platonic for a story that takes place in a world where ancient Greece never existed? I don't know!! And the weekdays? I'm pretty sure The Witcher actually uses our names for the weekdays, but how much sense does that make when most of those names are derived from Norse mythology? Like, sure, the Skelligers believe in a variation of the Norse myths but still? Language, guys, what's up with that, really?
> 
> Anyway, if you like this work, please consider leaving kudos and a comment, it makes my day to read them!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the leshen falls, it reveals its killer standing behind it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so so much for your kind words on last chapter. You all made me so happy and I can't thank you enough for letting me know that you like what I do.
> 
> Also, I was reminded of [this really cool artwork](http://wehavekookies.tumblr.com/post/171915848859/needed-to-draw-something-more-dynamic-ended-up) the other day, and while it's not what inspired this story, it definitely reminds me of it. Just take away the swords and you have Geralt's aesthetic in this fic right there.

Time seems to stand still as the leshen looks down at its own chest and the claws protruding from it. It wails then, but the sound turns into a gurgle before it's ever fully formed. The leshen reaches up to rid itself of the claws, but they vanish as fast as they appeared, and the leshen's burnt and torn body stumbles forward and then to the ground, hitting it with a dull thud. As the leshen falls, it reveals its killer standing behind it.

Geralt is on edge, standing with his gun raised and pointed on the newcomer. Whatever can kill a leshen like that is guaranteed to be dangerous.

And yet, it looks like a person.

They stand with their back to Geralt, the hood of their jacket pulled up to obscure their face. Their entire body is tense, their hands clenched into fists, claws nowhere to be seen. Geralt can't shake the feeling that there's something familiar about the silhouette, about the set of the person's shoulders.

His pulse quickens as he puts two and two together. The smoke, the claws, the shape. The lethality, and the fact that Geralt's medallion has gone still despite clearly being in the presence of something powerful and supernatural. The light is still fractured by the clouds up ahead, but Geralt is sure that if they were to disperse and the sun would shine unobscured, the person up ahead would cast no shadow. It's another creature he's never had to fight before, and something he knows he can never defeat. He can only hope it's not there for him.

Geralt keeps his gun pointed at the figure, his hands steady. A shot won't really hurt it, but it might slow it down for a precious moment if Geralt needs to get away. He takes a breath. "What reason does a higher vampire have for killing a leshen?" he asks.

The vampire tenses further. There's a slight shift to the fabric of the hood, indicating head movement. It sighs… defeated…? before it speaks. "Because it was hurting you."

No.

It can't–

No.

Geralt knows that voice.

He hopes desperately that his ears must be deceiving him even though they never have before, because if they aren't– Then that means– It means a lie. A lie and a harsh truth.

Regis — because it _is_ Regis, and Geralt feels his own face fall and his resolve crumble — turns around to face him, but he doesn't meet Geralt's eyes. "I didn't mean for you to find out like this," he says. Softly, quietly. A normal human wouldn't have heard him. "I wasn't going to intervene. I just came along in case things went badly, and then it got to you and I–"

"Please stop." Geralt shakes his head, lowering his gun.

"I am sorry," Regis says. He looks like he's about to take a step closer, but thinks better of it and stays where he is.

"Were you ever going to tell me?" Geralt asks. He frowns and looks away. If Regis was going to kill him, he would have done so long ago. No need to be vigilant any longer. "Was there some plan to all this? Did you think it'd be convenient somehow, befriending a witcher, was that it?" His gaze darts up to Regis for a brief moment, but finds no answers there. "Or was it just some kind of game, seeing how long it'd take me to–"

"Don't–" Regis snaps, then calms his voice as he continues. "Don't for a second think that my friendship with you isn't genuine," he says. "I– I know that I lied about what I am. But please don't insult me by claiming I do not care for you."

Geralt sighs, pushing his fingers through his hair. "I... Can't do this right now. Need to be alone, need to _think_."

"I'll go," Regis assures. "But before I do, please, just… Are you hurt?"

It takes Geralt a moment to realise that Regis isn't asking about his emotional state, but about the slashes he sustained from the leshen. He glances down at his chest. The leshen's claws managed to draw blood, but the jacket took the brunt of the hit and the shallow gashes are already healing. Geralt would have thought that Regis could sense that. Could _smell_ that.

"I'm fine," he says, harsher than he intends to.

Regis sighs again. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "Truly." Then, his body dissolves into that blue-tinted mist again, and the cloud darts away through the forest, leaving Geralt alone.

He sinks down onto the ground and exhales for what feels like the first time since Regis first spoke. "Fucking _shit_ ," he mutters, kicking away a rock with the heel of his boot.

Regis is a vampire. A _higher_ vampire. He's probably killed people, could be heading straight to kill more, for all Geralt knows. He's probably old too, hundreds of years at least. That would explain why he has had so many professions, why he _knows_ so much. Geralt wonders what knowledge comes from books and what comes from actually being there and seeing it first hand. Gods, Geralt should have known, should have figured it out. His fingers come up to cover his witcher amulet.

"The fuck didn't you say anything for, huh?" he asks it. There's no response, of course.

The same questions that he asked Regis return to his mind. How long was he planning on keeping his nature a secret? And why did he befriend Geralt in the first place? Because it was Regis who started it all, it was Regis who approached him in that bar. Geralt can't help but wonder if he was really there by accident or if he'd tracked Geralt there. And what it means if he did.

And then there's today. Regis followed him, stepping in when he thought Geralt needed help. Geralt doesn't wish he hadn't, he doesn't. But he does wonder about his previous hunts, if Regis was watching him then too. He wonders what else Regis is hiding.

Everything he's ever learned about higher vampires is that they will look and act like people, but that their underlying nature will always be dark and untrustworthy. And yet Geralt has never known Regis to be anything but good. He's a kind and gentle man, and if that has all been a façade? The thought makes Geralt feel sick. But then again, would a good man lie about this? Of course he would, claims a more rational part of Geralt's mind, because what would happen to him if he didn't? Even so, that doesn't make Geralt feel less betrayed.

He tries to focus on his breathing to clear his head, but that same spinning feeling that he got when he understood that it was Regis that was in the clearing with him keeps coming back. He keeps hearing Regis' voice over and over again and he wants to scream. Geralt tries all the meditation techniques his mentors taught him, but nothing drives his thoughts away. Finally, he gives up and gets to his feet. If he does something, anything, maybe he can get at least a little bit distracted.

Most of his hair has come undone from the ponytail, so the very first thing Geralt does is to tie it back again. It's a small thing, but it's something, and it offers him the illusion of being in control of his situation. He walks over to the leshen corpse then, snapping a photo to send to the woman who wanted it gone. But as he opens the message app to send it, he is faced with the last text conversation he had opened. Regis, telling him to be careful. He clenches his jaw and exits the conversation, opening up the one he was intending and sends the photo.

 _'Creature called a leshen. Very rare and dangerous, why it took me so long. You need the head to pay me or is a photo enough?'_ he writes, hoping she'll reply quickly.

Geralt begins to cut off the leshen's head anyway, and at least sates his curiosity about whether the deer skull was its actual head or some kind of helmet. It's very much a head, with the tendons of the neck connected to the bone in a way that looks almost disturbing. At least Geralt won't be accused of faking the trophy for the money.

As the head comes loose, Geralt notices something on the ground, catching the light. A shard of glass, he realises. Maybe the bottle bombs wasn't such a great idea after all. He sighs, but begins to scavenge the clearing for the shards and picking them up. It's slow work, but he really isn't in any hurry to leave. It means returning to face the real world, and it means facing Regis. He doesn't know what he'll do when it comes to that, so he'd rather put it off as long as possible.

After a while, he's picked up the shards he could find, and he's gotten a reply from the woman who hired him.

 _'The landowners might want the trophy. We can settle it with them today if you'd like.'_ she writes.

Geralt confirms it, and gets an address in return.

He picks up the bag with the fire extinguisher from where he dropped it on the ground. It feels unnecessary to have brought it now when he never needed it, but he suspects he might have felt differently if it had been the other way around. With his free hand, he grabs the leshen's severed head and begins to walk back towards the Roach. He doesn't bother burning the rest of the body; it will become a part of the forest again soon enough.

 

The address takes him even further from Novigrad, but he doesn't mind. The people he meets with are decent enough, and actually pays him more than he expected, as long as he'll let them have the leshen head. Geralt is fine with that; it's not like he was going to mount it on a plaque and put it on his wall. They might though. He feels a little guilty about taking credit for a kill that technically wasn't his, but that guilt means thinking about Regis, so he pushes it away.

The landowners end up making an unexpected show of hospitality by offering him to join them and their friend for lunch. He accepts, and the food along with the couple's steady conversation is almost enough to make him forget his problems for a little while. Afterwards, he thanks them, and they promise to let him know if they ever see any other signs of monsters in their forests.

 

Geralt heads back towards Novigrad then, but during the ride his head keeps filling up with unwanted thoughts and questions. When the city is nearing, he follows a sudden impulse to turn west instead. He keeps the city in view to the right of him, but keeps going and going, until the air becomes more and more salty, the road becomes smaller and smaller, and finally ends at a lookout point by the sea.

There is no one else there, and he turns off the Roach's engine and parks it.

Geralt has never been here before and doesn't know why he came, but the wind is still and the place is peaceful in a way his mind certainly isn't, so he decides to stay. He sits down on the ground that is half dirt, half grass, and leans his back against one of the concrete pillars that line the area. He looks out over the calm sea that begins just a few feet away from where he's sitting. Regis would like it here, he thinks, and immediately tries to drive the thought away.

But it keeps pushing to the front of his mind, and Geralt knows he needs to deal with it, even though he might not want to. He can't be angry forever.

In the best case scenario, everything else he knows about Regis is still true. He might still be the good man Geralt has come to know. Because it's not necessarily the fact that Regis is a vampire that bothers him, but the fact that he didn't tell him. But the opposite, the worst case scenario, keeps showing its ugly face too with its what-ifs. What if Regis really has been using him this whole time, getting close to one witcher to be able to take on the rest? What if it's just entertainment to him, what if he's as twisted as the old stories claim vampires to be?

What if he was telling the truth?

He did sound earnest when he claimed their friendship to be genuine. He sounded hurt. Geralt wants so badly to believe it.

The ocean is comforting in its unique way, and Geralt ends up watching the water for hours. He watches the birds that dive down below the surface and rises again with their catch, watches the ripples on the surface as it's breached by whatever creatures that live beneath it. No one else visits the lookout point, and the closest he gets to seeing another person is when a boat passes by far out on the waters. That suits Geralt just fine.

As the evening draws closer, the clouds finally part in the sky, and the water goes from being grey and dark, to glittering in the orange light of the setting sun, the rippling waves coming to life in a completely different way than before. Geralt smiles at the sight, but it also reminds him that it's getting late. He stays for just a little longer, before he gets up and sets off to drive back home.

 

By the time he's passed through the suburbs and entered Novigrad proper, darkness has fallen over the city, and streetlights buzz to life along the roads. Tired, but less weary than he thought he'd be, Geralt parks the Roach in the garage. He leaves the bag with the fire extinguisher there as well, not really in the mood to drag it upstairs. He locks up and then heads for the front of the building.

And stops.

Because the second he rounds the corner, his eyes land on the figure leaning against the wall by the door. A familiar figure, one that casts no shadow. Everything Geralt has been trying to work through during the afternoon rises to the surface again in a chaotic mess, but he starts to walk.

Regis looks up at him as he approaches, and stops leaning against the wall, standing up straight. "If you want me to leave, I will," he begins. "I just wanted to see how you were doing."

A thousand questions are racing through Geralt's mind, and he doesn't know which one to voice. Once he reaches Regis, he stops again, but he can't bring himself to look at him, not yet. He crosses his arms. "Do you kill people?" he finally asks.

Regis sighs. "I used to," he admits, and Geralt can feel himself tensing, "but not anymore, not in a long time."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because I'm your friend. I never wanted to lie to you."

Geralt looks up then, searches Regis' face. He doesn't look like he's lying, but a good liar never does. "So why did you?" he asks. A little bit of his annoyance as well as a little bit of his pain bleeds into his voice.

"What choice did I have?" Regis' eyes find his, looking for something, pleading for something.

"Plenty. And you're answering a question with a question." His pulse is loud in his ears, and he knows Regis can probably hear it too.

Regis huffs out a breath and looks away for a moment. "I know. I'm sorry. I… I didn't know how. And it never seemed to be the right time. Please, Geralt, what would you have done in my stead?"

He makes a point, but not a fair one. Regis with his eloquent words and easy expressions can't ever be compared to Geralt and his stumbling attempts at conveying what he means. He opens his mouth to reply, but closes it, proving himself right by realising he has absolutely nothing to say. Instead, he just stares, taking in the dark depths of Regis eyes, the set of them, the shape of his nose, the lines in his face, _everything_. He takes it all in and he knows then that it doesn't matter what Regis is, doesn't matter that he didn't tell him, because what it all comes down to is that Regis is his friend. His friend that he knows and doesn't want to lose.

Geralt feels the anger and annoyance and hurt leave his body, and he lets his arms fall to his sides. His pulse slows down too, if only a little. It's not until now that he notices how close they're standing, how he would barely have to reach out to touch him. Regis is still looking at him with those dark, inquisitive eyes, is still waiting for an answer. Has it been a second or a minute? More? Geralt doesn't know. He just knows that his gaze has landed on Regis' lips and that he's leaning closer. It's not an impulse he wants to fight anymore, so he doesn't. He moves slow enough that Regis could pull away if he wanted, but he doesn't. Geralt tilts his head slightly so their noses won't bump, and lets his eyes fall closed before he presses their lips together, and then he does.

The kiss is short and sweet and Geralt wishes the moment would last forever. It doesn't, of course, but he's almost certain that when he pulls away, Regis leans into it, chasing it.

"I…" Geralt looks away, clearing his throat. "Sorry." He doesn't know if he's apologising for the kiss or for everything else, or maybe both. He realises that he's grasped Regis' wrist during it and starts to pull his hand away.

"Don't," Regis tells him, voice soft and gentle. He covers Geralt's hand with his free one, holding it in place. Once Geralt stills his hand, Regis raises his to stroke Geralt's cheek, making Geralt's breath hitch in his throat. "You have nothing to apologise for," he says.

Geralt leans into his touch. "Shouldn't really have done that without asking though," he points out, meeting Regis' eyes again.

"It's alright," he assures, smiling. "In fact, I'd quite like it if you did it again."

The smile is contagious, and Geralt finds himself grinning as he replies. "Well, if that's the case…" He leans in for another kiss, only this time there's no hesitation. Regis kisses him back, his hand cupping the back of Geralt's head, keeping them close. His sharp fingernails scrape lightly against Geralt's scalp, sending shivers down his spine. Geralt keeps his hand on Regis' wrist, thumb stroking across the thin skin there, while his other hand comes up to settle on Regis' side.

The kiss turns into another, and another, and another. Geralt loses track of time as they stand there together, but he doesn't care. When they finally do part, there is only one thought in his mind:

"Please stay?" he begs.

Regis brushes a stray lock of hair from Geralt's face, tucking it behind his ear. "I'd quite like that too."

 

Hours later, but with the moonlight still shining through the window, Geralt stirs awake. A brief moment passes before he remembers, a smile spreading across his lips as he rolls over to face the man laying next to him on the bed.

Regis is watching him, and covers Geralt's hand with his own once he's settled. "Did I wake you?" he asks, voice soft.

Geralt shakes his head. "No." He laces his fingers together with Regis'. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Something like that." Regis smiles, but there's something else in his eyes too. Sadness? No, that's not it, but Geralt still can't place it.

His own smile fades a bit. "Something wrong?"

Regis doesn't answer as first. He untangles their hands and lets his trail up along Geralt's arm until his fingers find a scar. "No," he finally says, eyes locked onto the scar. "How did you get this?" he wonders, tracing the raised line of skin. It runs a few inches along Geralt's forearm, ending in a jagged point near his elbow.

"Drowner," Geralt replies. "Regis–"

"Yes? What about this one?" Regis moves his fingers further up Geralt's arm, finding another scar and tracing it as well.

"You trying to distract me?"

Regis grins, the moonlight catching on his sharp teeth. "Whatever makes you think that?"

Geralt finds himself grinning back before growing serious again. He reaches out to brush his fingers against Regis' cheek with a sigh. "Just… promise you'll be honest with me."

Regis turns his head to press a kiss to Geralt's palm. "I promise," he says, meeting his eyes again.

Geralt nods. "Then you'd tell me if there was something about this that made you uncomfortable, right? If this happened too fast, if there was something you didn't want?"

"I'm old enough to know what I want, trust me," Regis says, smiling again. His hand comes up to take Geralt's, and he kisses it again.

"How old exactly?" Geralt asks, his curiosity piqued.

Regis chuckles, shaking his head. "You don't want to know."

"Of course I do," Geralt assures, squeezing Regis' hand.

Regis rolls his eyes slightly, but his smile doesn't fade. "Fine. About twelve hundred years. Perhaps thirteen at this point, I don't really keep close track of it anymore."

Geralt is thankful that he's already laying down, because he can feel the world spin slightly around him. "That's… a lot," he says after a moment, eloquent as ever.

"You did ask," Regis points out. He leans in, pressing a brief kiss to Geralt's lips. "It's not too strange, is it?"

Geralt shakes his head. "No. Just hard to wrap my head around, is all."

Regis lays back down, but reaches up to brush some hair out of Geralt's face. His hair-tie has come loose at some point during the evening, discarded somewhere in the room. "I'm still the same person. I've just lived through certain events instead of reading about them."

"I know. And I promise I won't tease you if you ever find yourself not understanding modern things like electricity."

Regis' eyes widen slightly. Then he pushes down on Geralt's shoulder, making him roll over on his back. "Geralt," he begins, leaning over him, smiling, "are you calling me old?"

Geralt shrugs, grinning back. "Maybe a little?"

"Some would warn you to be careful when in bed with a vampire, you know. I could still bite you."

"Would you?" Geralt asks, just a little bit cautious.

Regis shakes his head. "I haven't tasted blood for many centuries. I'm not about to start again now. But," he says, leaning down closer, "I know of other ways to shut you up."

Geralt smiles wider. "Is that so?"

It is.

 

When Geralt wakes next, the moon has been replaced by the sun.

Regis is asleep next to him, breathing steadily against his shoulder. His arm is draped across Geralt's chest, their legs tangled together beneath the sheets.

Geralt raises his hand to place it on Regis' forearm, gently as to not wake him. He rubs his thumb across the skin, watching how the hairs there glow almost golden in the morning sunlight. He turns his head slightly to the side for a moment, to press a soft kiss to the top of Regis' head.

Geralt sighs and smiles, just to himself. He's been with his fair share of people in the past, and even allowed himself to love some of them. But it has never been like this before, has never felt so right before. Has never felt like coming home.

Regis doesn't look like he's about to wake up any time soon, so Geralt lets his eyes close again and drifts off to sleep with one thought in his head: He's so very happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit shorter than the other chapters, but I did post it within like two days of the last so I hope that's okay!
> 
> As always, kudos and comments make my day, so consider leaving some if you like the story <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time that follows is pleasant. Geralt is wary at first, because he's heard so many tell him that a witcher's life is supposed to be anything but.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a while longer to get out, mostly because I knew how I wanted it to end but not how I wanted it to start.
> 
> Also I should probably mention that I still haven't read the books (yet), and that I just base this on what I know from the games, plus extensive use of the wikia page. So if there's any lore or something that I've missed, it's because of that.

The time that follows is pleasant. Geralt is wary at first, because he's heard so many tell him that a witcher's life is supposed to be anything but. But he dismisses that wariness the best he can, because even if his time with Regis should end up being short, he doesn't want to have tainted it.

He keeps working as usual, and he makes Regis promise to let him take care of himself and handle his hunts on his own. It's what he has always done, and it doesn't need to change. After a few days, however, he does notice that a raven seem to keep watching him, regardless of whether he is hunting in the city, or on the countryside. There's a keenness to the bird's black eyes that eventually makes him bring it up with Regis.

"Those ravens," Geralt says one day, as he and Regis are walking through the city, no particular destination in mind, "they your doing?"

"Oh? So you figured it out," Regis replies, at least looking a little bit bashful as he does.

Geralt nods. "That something all higher vampires can do, or just you?"

"Some, but not all. I have a particular fondness for them, I suppose. Did you know there was a witcher who went by the name Raven once? I never knew him, but I think you– You might have heard of his armour, actually. It was supposedly the stuff of legends."

"Regis."

Regis looks at him, a little tense around the eyes. "Yes?"

"You're changing the subject."

The tension fades away, replaced by a slight smile. "My apologies."

Geralt squeezes his hand in acknowledgement before returning to what was on his mind. "You don't need to send them after me, you know. The ravens."

"They're simply to keep an eye on you, to let me know if something happens," Regis tells him, his tone serious.

"We've been over this. Can look after myself."

Regis sighs and comes to a halt. Geralt stops too, being held back by their joined hands. "I know. But your life is so very fragile, Geralt," he says, raising his free hand to adjust something on Geralt's jacket, not meeting his eyes.

Geralt frowns. "I'm a witcher. I'm pretty sturdy," he replies, voice soft and doing his best to be reassuring.

"I know that," Regis says with a melancholy little smile. "And believe me, I'm grateful that you're not an ordinary man and even more breakable. But you are still mortal."

"Regis…" He hadn't known it worried him so much. But he supposes it makes sense, in away.

"Please allow an old vampire some peace of mind and let the ravens stay?" Regis asks, looking up.

Geralt smiles and nods. "Guess they make for decent company."

"Thank you," Regis murmurs, and leans in to press a brief kiss against Geralt's lips. Then, they keep walking, still hand in hand.

 

They spend most of their time together, with Regis showing up at Geralt's apartment once his shift at the library is over. On a few occasions he helps Geralt get patched up after a hunt, chastising him for not being careful enough through the process. But as he works, his hands are always careful and gentle against Geralt's skin.

More often than not, Regis stays the night. Geralt is used to sleeping alone, but now he finds the bed too big during the nights Regis isn't in it, finds that he misses feeling another body against his own. He dreams still, the same hazy dreams that always feel strange and familiar at the same time. The dreams aren't anything special in themselves, since he's had them for as long as he can remember. But Regis features in them almost constantly now, still the only figure unobscured. It feels like it has to mean something, but Geralt can't seem to figure out what.

 

One day, when Regis isn't working and Geralt hasn't been able to find a hunt, they find themselves by the Novigrad Museum of History.

"Would you like to go inside?" Regis suggests, looking up at the impressive building.

Geralt has never been a frequent museum goer, mostly because it's one of those environments where he feels awkward and out of place, but he finds himself shrugging. "Sure. You can tell me how wrong all the information is," he says.

"If it weren't for the fact that it would place a target on my head, I would have had quite a few arguments with certain historians over the years, believe me. Some things those people say are just painfully inaccurate."

They stroll through the museum, watching the history of the Free City of Novigrad being told around them. Regis does indeed make remarks about how some things presented vary from being just a bit misinformed to completely incorrect. And he's more than a little bit annoyed when it comes to the witch hunt of the thirteenth century.

"'Ridding the city of the mages that plagued it'," he reads off of one of the museum plaques and scoffs. "The real plague was the witch hunters. Most of those mages were completely innocent. And once the mages were gone, they targeted non-humans instead, but it seems that wasn't worth mentioning."

"I'm sorry," Geralt tells him, not knowing what else to say. He puts his hand on Regis' elbow, trying to be comforting. He doesn't know if he succeeds or not. "Did… you live here back then?"

Regis shakes his head. "No. But I had friends who did. And the rumours spread even as far south as Beauclair, which is where I was staying at the time." He sighs. "Let's move on. It was a long time ago, yet remained an issue for far longer. It's rather depressing to dwell on it."

Geralt nods and follows him.

Later, they stop in front of a painting depicting a man who has triumphantly slain a wyvern, his cape billowing behind him in the wind. There's something strangely familiar about the man's face, and Geralt wonders if he might have seen the painting somewhere before. Either way, it's embellishing the situation. People just don't look like that after a fight. 

"Oh dear," Regis says, eyebrows raised in surprise. "I didn't know this was here."

Geralt reads the text displayed next to the painting. "'Dandelion, one of the most famous poets in Redanian history.' You a fan?" he asks, looking back at Regis.

"Worse," Regis replies, shaking his head with a smile. "A friend."

"He a vampire too?"

"Oh no, Dandelion was very much human. With all that that entails."

"Must be strange," Geralt muses, returning his attention to the painting again, "seeing a painting of a friend who passed so long ago."

Regis says nothing for a while. Eventually, Geralt turns to look at him, only to find that Regis is watching him with melancholy in his eyes. As he realises Geralt has turned around, he clears his throat. "Sometimes," he tells him. "But I'm used to it at this point. And I try to think of them as they were, not about the fact that they are gone."

"What was he like?" Geralt asks.

"Dandelion? A rather self-absorbed womaniser who couldn't get enough of hearing his own voice. But he was also kind and cared a great deal for his friends." Regis smiles and looks at the painting, though Geralt suspects he's seeing a memory instead. "I think you would have liked him," he adds a few moments later, throwing Geralt a glance.

There are many more exhibits in the museum, though Regis has more to say on certain periods of time than others. Mostly related to where he lived and which people he knew during each time, he explains.

"I did tell you I hadn't been this far north for quite some time, which is true. I've moved around my fair share over the years, partly because people will realise that I do not age, and partly because when eternity is at your fingertips, you try to see as much of the world as you can."

"Have you?" Geralt wonders, curious. He hasn't really travelled beyond the north, having been able to find work here ever since he left Morhen Valley as a young witcher.

"Oh yes," Regis confirms. "I've had homes in most parts of the world by now, though there are some places I've always favored more than others. I quite enjoyed Toussaint, until–" He clears his throat and glances at Geralt briefly. "Until certain events transpired. I'd explain them to you, but I don't think this is the place to do so. I've lived mostly south of there since, with only occasional visits up north."

"What made you move here now then?" Geralt asks.

Regis frowns. "I'm not actually certain. I suppose I could call it a hunch that it would be the right thing to do, though I don't know where it came from. But I do know, however, that I am glad I did." He smiles, lacing their fingers together again, and Geralt can only agree.

 

The morning after their visit to the museum, Geralt comes to a strange realisation. In his dreams that night, another figure lost its haziness, taking on the shape and face of the man in the painting. Dandelion. Sometimes talking, sometimes singing, and sometimes just existing in the background, a bright purple beacon among the still obscured people. The best reason Geralt can come up with is that he was a friend of Regis', but that doesn't really explain why he's showing up in Geralt's dreams when no one else has. Geralt keeps turning the question over in his head, but he doesn't come up with anything better.

He still hasn't told Regis about the dreams either, and this makes him even more reluctant to do so. It might stir unpleasant memories for Regis, and it would make Geralt seem not a little a bit obsessed.  He doesn't want something as trivial as dreams to drive Regis away from him, so he keeps quiet. Besides, it's probably nothing to worry about.

 

It's surprisingly long before Geralt visits Regis' home for the first time. It isn't something they have been avoiding, but merely a matter of circumstance, just as it is when they do end up there. Geralt goes to meet Regis at the library at the end of what for him has been an uneventful day, but by the time they are on their way to leave, heavy rain is pouring from the sky.

"Why don't we go back to mine instead?" Regis suggests. "It's a bit closer."

"Sounds good to me," Geralt agrees.

The walk closely together, arms wrapped around each other and trying to both fit under Regis' umbrella. In the end it doesn't help much, and by the time they arrive at Regis' place they're both half soaked. It's an old building, like many others in this city, and Regis lives on the top floor in an apartment that's even smaller than Geralt's. There's a bathroom, a kitchen and a bedroom, and most of the space is covered with either bookshelves or boxes, some of them opened, some not.

"Sorry about the lack of space," Regis says as they enter, clearing his throat. "I've assembled a bit of a collection over the years."

"That's a lot of books," Geralt remarks, stopping to look at the closest shelf. It's a strange mix of titles and languages, and while some of the spines look smooth and new, Geralt suspects that others might be very, very old.

"I  _ know _ ," Regis sighs. "I try to only keep the ones I know I can't find anywhere else, but even that is starting to become too much to carry with me whenever I move." He shakes his head at himself, then walks over into the kitchen. Geralt can hear him opening a cupboard and take something out. "Do you want tea or coffee?" he asks.

"Coffee would be nice," Geralt replies. It's a small thing, but he likes how neither of them need to raise their voices to be heard across the rooms. He remembers a woman who always told him to speak up like a normal person, and how bad he felt each time he forgot. But with Regis, he could whisper and still be sure that he would be heard. The thought makes him smile.

He turns to look at the other shelves, but his attention is caught by the various boxes on the floor. "There books in these too?" he asks.

"In some," Regis replies from the kitchen, "but it's mostly various items and trinkets. A lot of things from old friends." Geralt hears the sound of the coffee maker coming to life, followed by Regis' footsteps as he walks into the room. "Which reminds me," he continues, passing Geralt and making for one of the opened boxes, "I've been meaning to give you this." He takes out a small pouch with drawstrings, made out of what looks to be black velvet, and holds it out for Geralt.

"You don't need to give me things," Geralt tells him.

"But I want to," Regis objects, and reaches for Geralt's hand, placing the small bag in his palm and closing his fingers around it. What's inside it feels sharp through the fabric, and somewhat heavy for its size.

Geralt shakes his head with a smile, and opens the little bag, turning it upside down over his palm to let its contents fall out. And in his hand lands a witcher's medallion.

It's a snarling wolf's head, made up of sharp angles and points. Of course Regis knows what they look like because he has one, not because he's read about them, Geralt thinks, recalling their first conversation. He turns the medallion over, watching the silver glint in the light, despite how the years have darkened it.

"You don't have to wear it," Regis says, wrapping his arm around Geralt's waist and resting his chin on Geralt's shoulder. "But I felt like you should have it, at the very least. It was– It belongs with a witcher."

"How long have you had this?" Geralt wonders, dragging his thumb over the wolf's angry eyes. It feels so very familiar, almost more so than his own medallion.

"A few centuries. Six, I believe? It used to belong to a friend of mine. When… When he passed, a sorceress kept it for many years, no doubt to have something to remember him by. And then, after she eventually died as well, I managed to get my hands on it. I didn't really fancy the thought of it falling into the possession of someone who didn't know its history," Regis explains, looking at the medallion over Geralt's shoulder.

Something that Geralt can't quite define lodges itself in his chest. It's part sympathy over the loss Regis has gone through, and part something else. "Must have been a close friend, if you went through the trouble of getting his medallion back years later."

"He was," Regis confirms. "But it was a long time ago, even for me." He presses a kiss to Geralt's neck, right where the skin meets the collar of his shirt. "And like I said, I want you to have it."

Geralt looks down at the pendant in his hands. It feels a bit strange, to accept something that Regis has had for so long, that obviously means a lot to him. But at the same time, there's something that feels just  _ right _ about the medallion, about its shape and weight. Geralt makes his decision, and puts the chain around his neck. Before the medallion is even settled, he knows exactly where it will lie against his chest, but he tries not to think about why that could be. "I'll be careful with it," he promises, putting the velvet bag in his pocket before turning so that they're face to face, but Regis' arm still around him. "Thank you," he says then, cupping Regis' face in his hand and leaning to kiss him.

When their lips eventually part, they stay close to each other, forehead against forehead. "You know," Regis says, breath ghosting over Geralt's lips, "I might have to start finding more gifts for you if you'll kiss me each time I give you one."

"Can kiss you just fine without a gift too," Geralt tells him, and does so again to prove his point.

"Ah, but what about the courting? The honed traditions of gift-giving to display one's affection? Whatever would people say?" Regis jokes. Though his hands betray his mockingly scandalised tone by going from Geralt's waist to settling on his hips, thumbs hooking through his belt hoops.

"About a witcher and a vampire? Plenty, but none of it would have to do with courting," Geralt remarks.

"Are you sure? Not even anything about how I've used my dangerous charms to win you over?"

"Hm, maybe. They'd be right though."

Regis doesn't reply, only smiles and kisses him again.

Geralt finds his hand tangling in Regis' hair as he kisses him back, and he is overcome by a warmth in his chest that seems to accompany Regis these days. He could do this forever.

Regis trails his kisses away from Geralt's mouth, along his jaw and down to his neck. Regis told him that he had no intentions of drinking his blood, and Geralt believes him, but that does nothing to stop the shivers that run along Geralt's spine whenever he feels just the slightest scrape of sharp teeth against his skin. But not at all in any unpleasant way. His breath hitches, his hand messing up Regis' hair further. The scent of Regis' shampoo tickles his nose along with–

"Didn't you make coffee?" Geralt asks, more breathless than he'd like to admit. Now that he's noticed it, the warm and bitter scent has filled the air around them.

"Hm, I suppose I did," Regis murmurs against his skin, beginning to trail his kisses back up. When his lips are just by Geralt's ear, he speaks again, his words barely a whisper. "But it can wait, can it not?"

Geralt shivers again and lets Regis pull him towards the bed.

 

Regis ends up getting that coffee later, while Geralt remains in bed, his body pleasantly sore, his hair loose and the covers pulled up high to keep the chilly air out. The wolf head medallion is resting on the nightstand beside him, its edges having been a little too sharp for… intimacy. He reaches for it now though, putting it back on and feeling the cool metal settle against his skin. It hangs just a little bit below his usual amulet, and while it feels a bit unnecessary to wear both of them at once, he's not particularly keen to remove either of them.

As he hears Regis begin to make his way back, Geralt pushes himself up into a sitting position, leaning back against the headboard to better be able to hold the coffee. But Regis, however, has stopped in his tracks, Geralt notices when he looks up at him. There's a hint of surprise, or perhaps disbelief in his face.

"What?" Geralt asks fondly.

Regis just shakes his head and resumes walking the short distance to the bed. "Nothing. Just my mind getting a little occupied, is all," he says. He puts the mugs down on the nightstand in order to join Geralt under the covers again, wrapping an arm around Geralt's shoulders. Once Geralt has settled against his chest, he hands him one of the mugs and then takes the other for himself.

"Always seems to be something on your mind. Keep wondering what you're thinking," Geralt confesses. He takes a drink from the mug, but the coffee is just a little too hot for now. It doesn't seem to bother Regis, though.

"Of things far more complicated than they should be, and of things far less interesting than I suspect you imagine," Regis replies. "Though most of the time, there's a certain person that keeps passing through. Those thoughts are quite pleasant, I must admit." He offers a smug smile, and Geralt can't help but smile back.

"Always such a sweet talker," he comments.

Regis hums in agreement. "Is it working?"

"I'm in your bed, aren't I?"

Regis chuckles at that, careful not to spill his coffee as he does. "That you are indeed. I suppose I should consider that quite the accomplishment."

Geralt frowns at that. "Regis. It's been weeks. Should know by now that I don't exactly need convincing."

"No, that's– That's not what I meant," Regis says, his brows knitting together as well. "I'm merely surprised, pleasantly so, that you're still with me. Like you just said; it's been weeks. I wouldn't have blamed you if you had already tired of my company."

Geralt just blinks. Where the fuck did Regis get that idea?

"Of course, a couple of weeks is a very short time for someone like me," Regis continues, "but I know the, hm, novelty of vampires only remains such for a certain period of time–"

"Wait," Geralt says, interrupting Regis finally. "You think I'm with you because you're a vampire?"

There's a  _ clink _ as Regis puts away his coffee mug, and Geralt wishes he could reach far enough to do the same. "Well, not  _ only  _ that. But you didn't initiate anything until after you found out about my nature, so I suspect–" 

"That had nothing to do with it," he objects. "Couldn't care less whether you're a vampire or a human, you're a good man and that's what matters. That's who I wanna be with."

Regis goes a bit tense beside him, before he turns his head to press a kiss against Geralt's temple. He sighs then, happily. "Quite the accomplishment indeed."

"You know, for someone who talks as fancy as you do, you can be kinda stupid sometimes," Geralt tells him. "'M not going anywhere unless you want me to."

Regis chuckles a little at that. "Then I expect you'll have to stick around for quite some time."

Geralt shrugs. "Got nothing against that."

 

They put their clothes back on eventually, and later that evening Regis is flipping through three different books at once, while Geralt is trying to scour the local news for anything that could mean witcher's work. They've been silent for a while, just enjoying each other's company. After some time of searching and finding little, Geralt gives up on the news, and finds himself distracted by how the light from his phone reflects in the new medallion around his neck. Or old medallion, he supposes. His hand comes up to touch it, still fascinated by its sharp, somehow familiar lines.

"Who was he?" he asks, breaking the silence.

"Pardon?" Regis says, looking up from his books.

"The witcher who had this before. Said he was a friend, but nothing else."

Regis clears his throat. "Oh. It belonged to Geralt of Rivia, I believe I mentioned him."

"You did," Geralt confirms. So Regis knew the man personally. Of course he did. Something twists in his gut, a spark of jealousy, maybe? It's completely irrational, Geralt knows that, and tries to ignore it. "That why you gave it to me? 'Cause we have the same name?"

Regis reaches across the small kitchen table, placing his hand on Geralt's arm. "Of course not. Like I said, it should be with a witcher, not hidden away in one of my boxes. And there's no other witcher I would rather see wear it than you."

Geralt's gaze darts from Regis to the medallion, and back to Regis. "Still seems like an odd coincidence."

"That hasn't escaped me either, believe me. But it would have been yours regardless of what name you used. See it as a token of fondness, please."

"Alright," Geralt agrees with a nod. Then, "What was he like though? Can't help but be curious."

Regis smiles at first, then his face becomes more guarded and he turns his gaze down to his hands. "He was… selfless," he settles on. "Brave, and a better man than most gave him credit for. Himself included."

Geralt would have expected Regis to be eager to share an anecdote, to trail off into a vivid retelling of a story. Not this, not him keeping his words close to his chest and still being so very earnest about what he does say. It's enough to make Geralt not pry any further, even though curiosity is still tugging at him. And so is the hint of jealousy. "Sorry he's not around anymore. It sucks, losing people," he says, at a loss for anything better.

Regis brushes his thumb over Geralt's skin, offering a small smile. "I appreciate the sentiment, but it's alright. It was a long time ago."

And yet he held onto that medallion until now. It doesn't feel at all like it's alright, but once again, words fail him and Geralt doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know how to make Regis' smile reach his eyes. The only thing he can think of is to place his own hand over Regis' to offer some sort of silent comfort. It does breathe some life into Regis' smile, but not quite enough.

 

Geralt spends the night in Regis' apartment, and is woken up the next morning by a gentle hand on his shoulder. He grunts in acknowledgement, opening one eye to look up at Regis' face in the dark room, illuminated by faint light from behind him.

"I need to head to work," Regis tells him softly, his hand gentle against Geralt's bare skin. "You may stay as long as you like, but if you need to go somewhere I've left the key on the nightstand."

"Mhm," he manages, not ready to wake up just yet.

Regis lets out a soft chuckle and bends down to kiss Geralt's forehead, before he disappears from the room.

Geralt wakes again sometime later, when the light is pouring in through the kitchen window, effectively falling into the bedroom as well. He stays in bed for a while, letting himself enjoy the way the sheets smell like Regis. There are no new messages for him about any hunts today either, so he figures he can take a slow morning.

He washes up — Regis' bathroom lacks a mirror, but Geralt can guess why — and gets dressed, and then goes to steal some coffee from the kitchen. He does some more browsing of the local news for any hints of monsters attacking in the night, and sends out messages to various police stations as per usual.

When he gets no replies, he considers just heading home, to at least work on refilling his potion stock. But Regis' collection seems to pull at him, and he ends up inspecting it much closer than he had the day before, reading more of the titles and even opening a few books to browse through them. He actually finds a few tomes that he recognises from the library at the witcher facility in Morhen Valley, and makes a mental note to look closer at them later.

But the books aren't the only part of the collection that beckon him; he finds himself drawn to the boxes as well. He doesn't want to snoop though, and leaves the unopened ones alone. The box from which Regis had pulled the witcher medallion yesterday, however, still stands open. How much of a secret can it contain if Regis didn't bother to close it? Geralt pushes at the lid a bit, revealing the contents better. Mostly books, just like Regis had said. For the most part, they're neatly stacked in order to fit into the box, but one lies on top of the others, slightly askew. It looks old, bound in worn and soft leather, and lacks a title.

Geralt picks it up, frowning a little at how some pages seem to be larger than the others, sticking out just a little bit. Not pages, he guesses then, but loose papers placed in between them. He flips open the book at a random page, bookmarked by one of the loose papers.

It seems to be notes, of some sort, perhaps a diagram. It's all handwritten, in a language Geralt has a hard time placing at first, until he understands that it's simply just old Common, the grammar and spelling having changed so much since it was written that it's barely recognisable. The handwriting is neat and surprisingly familiar, and Geralt smiles to himself as he realises he must have found one of Regis' old journals. He shouldn't pry further, he decides, and moves to close the book. But as he does so, his thumb brushes against another one of the loose papers, and his senses tell him that this particular one has been viewed a lot, and recently. It's more instinct than a conscious decision that has him flipping the page open.

Only to come face to face with himself.

On the page is a sketch of a man that is unmistakably Geralt; the set of his eyes, the line of his jaw and the shape of his nose. His pupils are narrow slits, and while the drawing is rendered in black and white, the hair is barely shadowed at all, indicating how pale it is. The only thing that is unfamiliar is the long scar running along his left cheek and forehead, which is what makes Geralt go from flattered to confused.

And then there's the paper itself. It's just as old as the rest of the book, and the lines drawn on it look like they are anything but new. It doesn't make any sense.

Geralt moves his hand away from the page, intending to leave the book alone and asking Regis about it later. Only then does he realise that his fingers had been covering up the text written there. The language is still old, but there is nothing to misinterpret. Geralt feels his entire body grow cold as he reads them:

_ My dear friend, Geralt of Rivia. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who reads this, and even bigger thanks to everyone who comments. It really makes my day when you do, which is why I want to answer everyone of you, even if that makes it look like this fic has a lot more comments than it actually does. Please keep letting me know your thoughts on what I do <3<3<3
> 
> I upped the rating just to be safe, figured I alluded a little bit too much towards sexy times to comfortably fit the T.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say that witchers don't feel anything, that the mutations strip them of their emotions and turn them into ruthless killers who only care about ridding the world of monsters. Geralt has always known that that's not true, of course, but he's never known it just so clearly as he does right in this moment. Because right now, he feels everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I always say, thank you so much to everyone who reads and kudoses and comments, it means the world to me to see your support!!
> 
> I don't think there's a lot left to write on this fic, but first: angst.

Geralt drops the book as if it just burned him, a million thoughts rushing through his head at once.

This can't be happening. He doesn't even know what _this_ is.

They say that witchers don't feel anything, that the mutations strip them of their emotions and turn them into ruthless killers who only care about ridding the world of monsters. Geralt has always known that that's not true, of course, but he's never known it just so clearly as he does right in this moment. Because right now, he feels _everything_.

Shock at the discovery, expecting anything but this.

Betrayal and hurt, because Regis had this the entire time, always knew and yet he didn't say a word.

And loss at the realisation that Regis might never have wanted him at all, that everything he sees when looking at Geralt is an old memory come to life.

His blood is rushing through his veins and pounding in his ears, his breath coming faster and faster as he backs away, needing to get away from the book. It has landed with the pages facing the floor at the very least, granting him a small mercy by not forcing him to look at the face that both is and isn't his own. His back hits one of the bookcases, and he slumps to the floor, putting his head in his hands and trying to calm down his breathing. It doesn't do him much good as a wave of wrongness washes over him, a disgust at himself for jumping into this so eagerly. For thinking that he could be happy.

He doesn't want to think about Regis' reasons for all of this, but he can't help it. Maybe it really has been a game all along, some elaborate scheme to mess with him. Maybe he's off laughing with his vampire buddies right now about how he's tricked the stupid little witcher. But Geralt instantly hates himself for even thinking that. Whatever Regis has done, that's not it. It just can't be.

And yet, he's definitely done something. He's lied, and he's built their relationship on something that wasn't true.

Geralt can't help but question if he ever planned on telling him, or if it was going to remain a secret forever. No wonder he became closed off when Geralt asked about the Geralt from the past. He didn't want to risk exposing the truth. And what was the point of giving him the medallion? Was Regis trying to make him look more like the other Geralt? Trying to mould him somehow, to better fit his memories? The medallion in question now feels heavy around his neck, so he pulls it off, throwing it away. It lands somewhere in the corner with a sharp thud. Regis can keep those memories to himself.

The panic slowly transforms into anger, and Geralt lets it. It's so much easier to be angry. His legs feel weak and shaky, but he still pushes himself up from the floor and manages to stand. He grabs what little he had with him since yesterday, and takes the key Regis left on the nightstand. No matter how angry he is, he doesn't want Regis to get robbed. But once he's locked the apartment door behind him, he shoves the key into the mail slot. He doesn't intend to come back without getting a damn good explanation first.

The anger fuels him on the walk home, and anyone who happens to glance in his direction is met with a harsh glare. It probably doesn't do much good for the witcher reputation, but right now Geralt can't bring himself to care.

But when he comes home and steps through the door of his apartment, he feels the anger seep out of him, replaced by a weariness that reaches into his very bones. He doesn't get further than locking the door behind himself, and then just remains there, standing with his forehead leaned against it.

He should have known. He should have figured it was all too good to be true. It never made sense that someone like Regis should see something in someone like Geralt. Or, well, he did see something, just not _him_.

Geralt thought it was bad when he found out that Regis is a vampire. But that was a sensible thing to hide, something that Regis has had to be quiet about his entire life to ensure his own safety. It was a secret that made sense, and a secret that Geralt would have kept himself, had their roles been reversed. But this? Regis keeping this a secret just feels like a selfish betrayal. He wanted his _dear friend_ back and used Geralt to pretend he had.

Geralt doesn't know how long he stands there by the door, listening to his own ragged breathing and chaotic thoughts. After a while, he feels something wet and warm against his face, and when he brings his hand up to wipe it away he realises that he's crying. He doesn't remember when that last happened.

"Fuck," he hisses to himself, and finally takes a step away from the door. He wipes the tears away but can still feel the salty traces of them on his skin, so he goes to wash his face. But as he does, he is met with his own face in the bathroom mirror and the drawing from Regis' journal flashes before his eyes. Great. He can't even look at his own reflection anymore.

An impulse has him reaching up with his hand, dragging his finger in a line from his forehead and down along his cheek. His fingernail leaves a pale mark in its wake for a brief second, tracing the line of the scar in the drawing. Geralt shakes his head and looks away. His scars and lack thereof is still something that he can consider his own, at least. He should keep it that way.

Geralt tries to keep his mind occupied after that, tries to focus on looking for work and on brewing potions. He never really succeeds, as thoughts of Regis continues to pop up. Sometimes, he almost forgets what has happened and is lured into the blissful belief that everything is fine, but reality always reminds him of its existence soon enough. For the briefest of moments, he entertains the thought of going back to Regis' place, to pretend he never saw the book and to let himself stay. But he knows that he can never look Regis in the eye and keep up that act, so he kills the thought before it can grow any further.

 

It's late afternoon when there's a knock on his door, accompanied by a soft but worried, "Geralt?"

Of course. Of course Regis would come looking for him when he wasn't still at the apartment. Geralt wonders if he noticed the discarded amulet, or the book. He stares at the door from his position by the kitchen table, frozen.

"I can sense you; I know you're there," Regis sighs from the other side of the door. "Are you alright?"

"What do you think?" Geralt asks. He stands from his chair and begins to walk towards the door, still not certain whether or not he's going to let Regis in. Not that a locked door would stop him, but Geralt would at least like to pretend that the choice is his.

"I am so, so very sorry, Geralt," Regis says, still outside. "This… This was really not how I intended for you to find out."

Before he can stop himself, Geralt is unlocking the door and opening it, coming face to face with Regis. He looks surprised for a brief moment, but mostly his features are lined with worry and sadness. "And what did you intend, huh?" Geralt demands. "Were you even gonna tell me at all?"

Regis clenches his jaw. "I was. Eventually. I thought it would be easier if I broke it to you slowly–"

"Easier?" Geralt interrupts, barely keeping his voice from breaking as he does. "Nothing could have made this easier. You _lied_ , Regis."

"I merely… refrained from disclosing certain information," Regis says, hurt flashing across his face.

"Last time I checked, that's lying."

"And what would you have had me say?" Regis asks, the pained look in his eyes growing more prominent. A part of Geralt feels bad for causing it, but another feels a dark satisfaction in knowing that he's not the only one hurting.

"Anything," he tells him. "Would have been good to know it wasn't really me you wanted."

Regis' eyes go wide, and the part of Geralt that feels guilty grows with them. "Is that truly what you believe?"

His voice sounds so faint and broken that Geralt can't bring himself to say yes, can't know that it would be the truth to do so. He clears his throat. "Don't know what to believe. That's kind of the problem."

Regis' hand is clutching the strap of his messenger bag, knuckles even whiter than usual. He takes a deep breath. "Then believe that I never meant to hurt you, and that it pains me so much that I doubt you could even comprehend it to know that I have."

Geralt wants to pull Regis close, to wrap his arms around him and never let go. He wants to let everything be fine. Instead, he says, "Still don't know if you're saying that to me or to him."

"I'm saying it to _you._ Though I'm not sure there's a difference."

Geralt narrows his eyes. "The _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?"

Regis looks away, furrowing his brow. "I don't suppose there's an easy way to explain it. I thought it was a coincidence at first, the way you both look and sound identical. But then your way of speaking and acting proved to be the same as well, regardless of the differences in the times and conditions you have been brought up in. The theory of reincarnation has been studied before, and as I got to know you I reckoned it might not be that far fetched. There is so very little that separates the two of you that I believe you might actually be the same person, that you're simply him reborn, and he a previous version of you. And in that sense," Regis concludes, "saying something to you would equal also saying it to him."

It takes a moment for Geralt to take it all in, to realise what it is that Regis is saying, and when he does, it makes him take a step back. "So what, I'm just a– a science theory?" he scoffs, shaking his head.

"No!" Regis says, eyes wide again. "No, Geralt that's not what I'm–"

"Regis," Geralt interrupts, his voice cold. He can't take this right now. "Think you should leave."

Regis exhales, defeated. He raises his hand towards Geralt, reaching up to grasp at his arm or shoulder, but Geralt bats it away before he gets there. "Please, just let me explain," he begs, his hand dropping to his side.

"Can't explain your way out of everything," Geralt protests. "Not this time. Please, just… Just go." He screws his eyes shut at the end, shaking his head.

He feels a hand gently cup his face for a brief second, but when he opens his eyes, Regis is nowhere to be seen.

 

After he's left alone, Geralt feels lost and empty.

He hadn't even begun to overcome the fact that he is the spitting image of a man Regis used to know, and then Regis had to drop his _theory_ on how they don't only share their looks but everything else as well. The latter feels like a much larger obstacle, and Geralt doesn't know what to do with it.

To think that all this time they have spent together, Regis has just been studying him, assessing everything he says and does, reaching some bullshit conclusion of reincarnation. Geralt is his own person, always has been. But even though Regis is wrong — because even the slight possibility that he's right is too much to consider — he still believes in his theory, and has based everything he's done around Geralt on it. And yet…

And yet he said he never meant to hurt him. Maybe he didn't. But what did he really expect would happen? Did he think Geralt would just accept it for the truth and thank him for explaining it? That everything would be fine? Gods, Geralt wants nothing more than that, for everything to just be alright again. He just doesn't know how that could happen. He doesn't know what Regis could say to make things okay.

 

That night, his sleep is restless, and he keeps tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable. When he dreams, he dreams of pushing Regis away. And in the dream, he has to really mean it too, because he has him at gunpoint — no, knifepoint, no, _sword_ point — when he does it. He can't recall the words that are spoken, but he can feel the weight of his actions as well as he can feel the weight of the weapon in his hand.

Everything about this feels off, and wrong, and Geralt doesn't know what he can do besides endure it and hope that the pain will eventually fade. Witchers aren't meant to settle down and find happiness, have never been for as long as anyone can remember, and he should let this serve as a reminder of that. At least he'll be more cautious to not make the same mistake in the future.

 

A week passes, and Geralt neither hears from Regis nor sees him. He supposes it's a good thing, that Regis respects his choice to tell him to leave. But he also feels disappointed, and can't help but wonder if Regis has just forgotten about him, if he has just packed up and left now that his secrets have been found out. Geralt hopes that's not the case, because while he hasn't forgiven or forgotten, or even really understood what Regis was doing, he still can't help but miss him. He keeps seeing things that remind him of Regis, and keeps waking up and expecting Regis' soft smile to meet him, only to find that he's still alone.

He tries to focus more on work, looking for possible hunts with more purpose than he has in a long time. It has some effect, and Geralt manages to push his feelings into a little box within himself and keep it closed for most of the time. It's easier that way, really.

His situation isn't fine, precisely, but for a while it's manageable.

 

It's a late evening, and Geralt is heading to the western parts of Novigrad to get rid of some drowners by the piers. He expects it to be a pretty standard job, like most have been this past week. Find and kill the monsters, bring proof, get paid.

There are a few people moving about in the streets even at this hour, but the closer to the industrial areas he gets, the less people he meets. Probably the reason why the drowners nested here, he guesses; it's close enough to their prey, but far enough that they won't be disturbed. Their traces are easy enough to follow into a sewer gate, half collapsed and filled with shallow water, and their dank and rotten stench stings his nose as he walks through it, entering the nest.

The medallion is trembling beneath Geralt's jacket, letting him know that the monsters are close, even though he cannot see them yet. A few paths fork away from the chamber he's in, all with traces of the drowners. He draws his gun and dagger, and starts by following the path on the left.

The water reaches above his ankles in this passage and each sound echoes against the stone walls, making it hard to move with stealth. However, that goes both ways, and he can hear the drowners moving about and hissing up ahead. Soon enough he's upon them, and the pair of them lunge toward him, snarling and shrieking. Geralt shoots them both in the head before they even have a chance to get close, and their bodies fall back into the water with a loud splash, the ichor from their brains spreading into the already murky water. The path is a dead end, so he has no choice but to backtrack to find the rest of the drowners, which will undoubtedly have been alerted by the sounds of Geralt firing his gun.

True enough, by the time Geralt returns to the first chamber, at least a dozen other drowners are spilling out from the two remaining forks, making quick work of swarming him. He raises his gun and shoots at as many of them as he can, sending several of them to the ground but also missing a good portion of his shots due to the sheer number of the drowners, combined with the fact that they keep moving around. Soon, far too soon, he's out of bullets, and the creatures are too close for him to have a chance to reload. Frustrated, and a little worried, he switches to fighting with his dagger.

Geralt slashes at the drowners, trying to get their throats and chests all while keeping himself away from their sharp teeth and claws. He moves around the chamber, trying to keep his back towards the wall at all times as to not let them surround him but it's no easy feat. While he is thinning out their numbers, it's draining his energy and stepping out of the way of their attacks is demanding more and more of his focus.

By the time the group of drowners has been reduced to three snarling monsters, Geralt is breathing heavily, and his jacket is covered in cuts and splattered with drowner ichor. He needs to finish this, and soon.

As one drowner moves in for an attack, Geralt steps away and passes by one of the other ones, ending up behind it and hurrying to drive his blade into its skull before it can turn around. But he takes just a moment too long to pull the blade back out, and one of the two remaining drowners manages to tackle him and bring him down, his footing not firm enough on the water covered floor.

His back hits the stone hard, water splashing all around him and the two drowners all up in his space. He kicks one away, not hard enough to kill, but enough to push it back for a few precious seconds. Before he can do anything to the one still at his side, it sinks its claws deep into his thigh, trying to hold him down. Geralt grunts from the pain, reaching up to stab its throat a little too late. He takes its life, but as it falls to the ground its claws are still lodged in his leg, and they tear a much bigger gash into Geralt's flesh before they get dislodged.

He grunts again, pressing a hand to the wound to stop some of the bleeding. It doesn't do much at all, and his blood starts to trail into the shallow waters around him. He doesn't have more time to think about that though, as the final drowner leaps for him. He slashes at it but misses, and it lands on him and grabs him by the shoulders, its foul breath washing over him as it snarls. Geralt stabs at it again before it can get any closer, and this time he hits, carving the side of its body open. It collapses on top of him, and he pushes it off.

As he realises it's over, he exhales, tries to catch his breath. He lets his head sink back onto the ground beneath him, not caring that the filthy water reaches past his ears when he does so. For a few moments, he just lies there, breathing and keeping his hand pressed against his bleeding leg.

Eventually, he figures he would do well to put some temporary bandages on, before he loses too much blood. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, the cold water dripping off of him as he does. He is just about to rummage through his bag for bandages when he notices a very familiar blue-tinted mist rush through the sewer gate and into the chamber. Before he even knows what to feel — relief, shock, anger? — Regis has materialised next to him, crouching by his side. He meets Geralt's eyes with an expression Geralt can't place, before he turns his gaze to the gashes in his leg.

"You're hurt," he says. His voice is strained, but Geralt doesn't know if that's because of the blood or because of something else.

"'M fine," Geralt replies, looking away from Regis' face and finally finding the bandages. He begins to wrap them around his leg, but Regis takes it from him and does it in his stead.

"No you're not. I wouldn't have come if you were," he tells him, and Geralt doesn't know how to feel about that at all.

Regis makes quick work of wrapping up Geralt's leg, and once he's done Geralt stands. Or, he tries to, but his leg doesn't want to take his weight, buckling beneath him and making him stumble. Regis catches him before he can hit the water again, his hands gentle but firm against Geralt's chest and shoulder. He puts Geralt's arm around his own shoulder and wraps his arm around Geralt's waist, supporting him without effort.

"Your clothes'll get wet," Geralt points out.

Regis rolls his eyes at that. "Oh _please_ ," he says. "Now let's just get out of here. Do you have everything?"

With his free hand, Geralt pats at his holsters, checking for his gun and dagger, confirming their presence. "Yeah. Can do this on my own though," he attempts, without any real energy behind it. Despite what was said between him and Regis last week, he can't help but enjoy being close to him again.

"You can hardly stand," Regis tells him, shaking his head. Then he smiles, if only a little. "And besides, it's very hard to dissuade a vampire from doing something they have set their mind to."

"Anyone ever tell you you're annoyingly stubborn?" Geralt mutters, letting Regis help him out through the sewer gate and onto the deserted street outside. The sudden wind chills his dripping clothes, and they feel even more uncomfortable than a moment ago.

"Once or twice," Regis replies, voice still a bit guarded. "It happens to me about as often as I suspect it happens to you."

Geralt sighs, shaking his head. "How'd you even know I was here in the first place?" he asks, changing the subject.

Regis glances at him. "You mean you thought my ravens ever left?" Geralt is about to reply to that, but Regis is faster. "I haven't been spying on you, I swear. I've merely let the birds keep an eye on you, in case of a situation like this. I wasn't going to violate your wish for me to stay away unless it was necessary for your own safety."

Geralt doesn't know how to reply to that. But it feels good, knowing that Regis never left him completely, that even when Geralt was as harsh as he was, it wasn't enough to push him away.

The walk back to Geralt's apartment takes longer than usual, given his wounds. And Regis is being uncharacteristically silent, offering no witty remarks or reflective anecdotes as they walk. He simply checks in now and then to ask if Geralt is in pain or not, but that's all. It makes time pass even slower, and it's a relief to finally arrive at the door to his apartment building.

"Thanks," Geralt says as he untangles himself from Regis and unlocks the door. "Didn't need to go out of your way like that, but you did. So thanks."

"Don't mention it," Regis replies, a tight smile on his lips. "Let's just get you patched up, yes?"

Geralt shakes his head. "Can do that myself."

"Nonsense. Those gashes are deep enough to need stitches, and we both know that I've far more experience with that than you. Besides, I'm already here, aren't I?" Regis offers, smile growing a little warmer.

Geralt sighs, but he would be lying if he claimed it was without affection. " _Fine_ ," he mutters, pulling the door open.

Regis helps him up the stairs and into his kitchen, though Geralt insists on taking off his belts and holsters on his own, supporting himself against the wall as he does. He dumps it all on the tarp on the floor, along with his shredded jacket, while Regis unpacks his medical supplies at the kitchen table. Of course he brought them with him. Geralt goes to sit in one of the chairs once he's done, limping his way there.

Regis gets to work right away, unwrapping the hastily applied bandages and putting them aside. Once there is no longer any pressure against the wound, it slowly starts to bleed again. Geralt doesn't miss how Regis clenches his jaw.

"Do you think you can take your jeans off or do I need to cut them?" Regis asks, prodding a little at the fabric.

Geralt just huffs and begins to unfasten his belt. The denim is soaked in sewer water and clings uncomfortably to his skin, but he manages to get the jeans off without at least making his wounds worse. He bunches them up and throws them onto the tarp with the rest of his stuff.

Regis' hands return to the gashes and he begins to clean them up. Geralt just crosses his arms and looks away in the meantime, not sure what to say or do. Regis' movements are as careful as ever, but right now, every touch also feels like it burns.

They sit in silence for a while, until Regis finally breaks it.

"I don't think I apologised properly. Nor explained myself well enough," he says, tense.

Geralt glances at him, but Regis' attention if focused on the wounds. He guessed something like this was coming, but do they really have to do it right now? Geralt would feel a lot more dignified if he could at least be wearing trousers. "No," he says. He means for it to be a question, but that intent gets lost somewhere along the way.

"May I try again?"

Geralt sighs. If there's any chance of fixing things, he knows he has to take it. Trousers or not. "I'm not going anywhere," he says.

Regis nods, reaching for a needle. "Like you know, Geralt of Rivia was a good friend of mine and I had the pleasure of knowing him for many years by human standards. But… He died, as witchers always do. I've learned, of course, throughout my lifetime that I will always outlive anyone who's mortal, and this was no different, though it always hurts to lose someone close." Regis sighs, shaking his head before continuing. "Seven hundred years or so passed, and then I stumbled upon you. I was shocked, to say the least, which is why I wasn't very coherent when we first met."

"Looked terrified," Geralt points out. "Thought you were just scared of witchers, at first."

"I _was_ terrified, in a way. You– Geralt of Rivia lost his memories once, I was told. He didn't recall anyone or anything from his past. I only met him again after he'd gotten them back, but I remember being so very grateful that I had not been forced to meet him during the time of his amnesia, to be forced to have him look at me and not know who I was. Then, when I met you…"

"I'm sorry," Geralt finds himself saying, wincing at Regis' words as much as at the needle poking through his skin.

Regis' hands still for a moment and he looks up to meet Geralt's eyes. "You have nothing to be sorry for, my dear," he tells him with a gentle smile, before going back to work. "I knew it couldn't be him," he continues, "not after so many centuries. Yet I had to know why you looked and sounded like him, so I tracked you to the pub. I suppose I hoped to have my curiosities sated and nothing more. But then you turned out to be so much like him, and yet so _you_ at the same time. I neither could nor wanted to stay away."

Geralt feels warm, despite his cold clothes. Regis has rarely sounded this vulnerable and earnest before, and if Geralt had doubts that Regis cares for him, they're gone now. But… "Still doesn't mean he's my past life," he says, clearing his throat.

"I know," Regis nods. "But it doesn't matter whether he is or not, and I was foolish to bring it up in the first place. I didn't think about how it would sound, and I was so eager to make things better that I didn't realise I was making them worse instead. I just wanted, still do, to make you understand that I haven't been trying to replace him with you, that I care for you because of who _you_ are, nothing else."

With every word, Geralt can feel the broken pieces of himself move back together, and he wonders why Regis didn't say all of this a week ago instead. But then again, Geralt wasn't exactly willing to listen either. At least things are heading in the right direction now, finally. Yet there are things Geralt still wonders about. "Gotta ask though," he begins, voice soft, almost teasing. "Didn't you think it was at least a little bit weird to get in bed with someone who looks just like your ex?"

Regis frowns for a brief moment, and then he actually _blushes_. "No," he says and clears his throat. "No, back then, we were never…"

"Really? Why not?" Geralt asks, surprised.

Regis seems very focused on doing the last stitches on Geralt's wounds all of a sudden. "He was never interested," he explains, voice flat. "And he had someone else, most of the time."

Geralt unfolds his arms, and reaches out to place a hand on Regis' forearm. "Sounds like an idiot."

Regis chuckles at that. "Perhaps. And before you ask, no, I wasn't with you simply because I never got to be with him. You charmed me all on your own."

It's Geralt's turn to feel his cheeks heat up, and he looks away. "Well, what can I say. Got some pretty decent qualities."

"That you do indeed," Regis agrees, even though Geralt hadn't been all that serious. He focuses on his work again, a soft little smile playing on his lips as he does so. His touch no longer burns against Geralt's skin, and Geralt can't help but think that maybe everything can be alright again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for sticking with me so far, you're the best! And an extra shoutout to everyone who leaves a comment, I always giggle like an idiot whenever I get a notification about it <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's late," Regis notes. He's right; it's closer to dawn than sunset. "I suppose I should be on my way."
> 
> That Geralt doesn't agree with. "Don't have to," he says, covering Regis' hand with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a while longer than the other chapters, mostly because I got sidetracked by binge-reading, and also because I wanted to pay a little extra attention to the ending. I hope you like it!

It doesn't take long for Regis to finish patching up Geralt's wounds after that, cleaning the skin around them and covering them with a compress, keeping it in place with medical tape.

"There we go," he says, standing up once he's done. "You know your limits better than I do, but I would advise against working at least until you've stopped limping."

Geralt stands, too, quickly realising just how close that brings them. "I…" He trails off just as soon as he begins, suddenly insecure. His gaze moves between Regis' eyes and a point somewhere above his shoulders. "I'm sorry," he says finally, swallowing.

He can feel Regis covering his hand with his own, and he relaxes, lets him take it. "Did I not tell you that you have nothing to apologise for?" Regis asks softly, tilting his head with the hint of a small but warm smile on his lips.

"I do though," Geralt protests. "Shouldn't have pushed you away like that. Especially not when I don't even think I wanted you to leave."

"I don't blame you for that in the slightest," Regis assures, still holding on to Geralt's hand. "I hurt you and you needed space. The only one who should apologise is me, and I can only hope you'll forgive me one day."

Geralt's body acts before his mind, and he wraps his free arm around Regis' shoulders, pulling him close into a hug. He sighs, letting Regis' scent wash over him. "Forgive you right now if you promise to stay," he murmurs.

For a brief moment, there's a tension to Regis' body, but it disappears as he returns the embrace, his palm against Geralt's back. "Of course I'll stay," he replies. "For as long as you'll have me."

Geralt exhales, his eyes closing in relief. For a while, they just stand there, holding each other. Eventually, however, it is Regis who breaks the silence.

"Geralt?"

"Mhm?" Geralt replies, opening his eyes just a little.

"As much as I enjoy being close to you, you do still smell like a sewer."

Oh.

Geralt breaks the hug, pulling back. "Sorry," he says, sheepishly. "I'll… go take a shower."

Regis nods, then offers a warm, genuine smile. "I'll be here," he promises. He squeezes Geralt's hand once before letting go and begins to tend to the mess on the kitchen table.

Geralt limps to the bedroom to grab some clean clothes, then makes for the bathroom. He catches a glance of himself in the mirror and yeah, he looks absolutely terrible. His hair is more greyish brown than white, dried into thick strips. The same greyish brown sludge has made marks around his face too, and together with the drowner ichor splashed across his face he looks like he's wearing some kind of botched camouflage paint. He wonders how Regis was able to take him seriously. His clothes aren't any better off, and they're still damp and cling to his body, the whole situation made worse by how dirty the water was. Geralt pulls them off and throws them in the laundry basket, grimacing.

 

When he later emerges from the bathroom, he's a lot cleaner and wearing dry clothes. He's still limping, of course, but the rest of him feels a lot better. He finds Regis still in the kitchen, with two steaming cups of tea on the table.

"I figured you might like to warm up some more," Regis says, gesturing for Geralt to sit down across from him.

Geralt takes a seat, mindful of his leg, and takes the cup in his hands. The ceramic is hot against his skin, but only in a good way. He lifts it to drink, but raises an eyebrow at the way the steam stings in his nose. "You put alcohol in this?" he asks.

"Just to numb the pain a little," Regis replies. "And this particular spirit happens to blend quite well with herbs."

"Got potions and stuff for pain, you know," Geralt points out, a teasing smile playing on his lips.

"Well, in that case I can always make you a cup without," Regis teases back.

Geralt grips the cup tighter and narrows his eyes. "No."

They drink their tea in a slow pace then, talking all the while about whatever comes to mind. Slipping back into old habits turns out to be easy, and it feels almost as if their week-long separation never happened.

"It's late," Regis notes when the mugs are long since emptied. He's right; it's closer to dawn than sunset. "I suppose I should be on my way."

That Geralt doesn't agree with. "Don't have to," he says, covering Regis' hand with his own. "Not like the bed isn't big enough for both of us."

 

They fall asleep together — and they only sleep, neither of them really ready for anything else just yet — and for the first time in a week Geralt feels like he's really resting.

Regis is with him in his dreams too, no longer pushed away. The light from the campfire dances across his face and Geralt feels whole again. He wants to reach out and touch him, but doesn't bring himself to do it. It's alright though, he finds himself thinking in the dream, because he can touch him as soon as he wakes up.

And he does, hugging Regis close to his chest and squeezing his hand once he stirs from his sleep. Regis responds by rolling over to face him instead, never letting go of his hand while he does so. The smile on his face makes Geralt think that maybe Regis needed this closeness just as much as he did.

"How lucky I am," Regis murmurs, reaching his free hand up to brush some sleep-tangled hair away from Geralt's face, "to be allowed to have this." Despite their darkness, his eyes shine in the light from the barely rising sun.

Geralt closes his eyes, leaning into the touch. When he opens them again, he finds that Regis is still looking at him intently, as if committing every detail about Geralt's face to memory.

"You're kinda sappy," Geralt tells him, brushing his thumb over Regis' knuckles. "Don't worry though. I like it." In truth, he's the one who should be considered lucky. He never thought he'd get to be with someone like Regis, let alone get a second chance after screwing it up. Geralt vows to himself that he will never let himself screw it up again.

Because screwing it up is a fate that seems to befall most witchers, himself included until now. All his past relationship have ended to some extent because of what he is. Some left because they found it too weird — the cat eyes that they thought were so intriguing at first made them uncomfortable later on, or the potions he had to use to survive during or after a fight scared them — and some left because they couldn't deal with his irregular work hours or the fact that he came home bleeding more often than not. And it's the same for pretty much every witcher he knows. Those few who actually have settled down are exceptions to the rule, and they tend to avoid mentioning their partners excessively, not wanting to taunt those who belong to the majority condemned to lonely lives. It's strange but pleasant to realise he is no longer a part of that majority.

Geralt chuckles a little then, at the thought that hits him. It makes Regis raise his eyebrows. "What?" he inquires.

Geralt shakes his head. "Just trying to picture the reactions if I told my fellow witchers about you."

"Are they not fond of sappy men?"

"Don't know about that. Thought more about the fact that I've actually found someone who won't be driven away by all the witcher stuff, and he happens to be a higher vampire," Geralt explains.

"I suppose that's not a compromise everyone is willing to make," Regis muses, brushing his fingers up and down Geralt's arm now instead.

"It's not a compromise," Geralt assures. "And besides, you're more human than most actual humans, and most witchers too. Only way they'd find out about you would be if I told them."

"And what would they do if they knew?"

Geralt shrugs. "Not much they could. Try to talk me out of it, maybe, after the surprise had settled."

"Do you plan on telling them?" Regis asks, looking away for a moment. "They are your family, after all."

"Maybe eventually. But for now I think I'd like to just keep you to myself."

 

As more and more light streams through the window, it becomes time for Regis to leave. "May I come back later?" he asks as he stands in the doorway.

He still doesn't seem completely certain of the fact that he's welcome again, and Geralt doesn't like it. So he takes a step closer, reaching for Regis' hand. "Of course." He means to say something more, but he loses his train of thought as he realises how close they're standing. Instead he cups Regis' face with his other hand, leaning closer. He hesitates when they're only an inch apart, wanting to give Regis a chance to pull away.

He doesn't. Instead, Regis leans closer too, meeting him. The kiss is brief, but it's the first one since… since everything, and Geralt can feel another part of himself get pieced back together with the rest.

There's a dopey smile on his face as they part, and when Regis moves away, Geralt holds on to his hand for as long as he can. "See you later," he says.

"See you later," Regis echoes, and his smile is just as dopey.

 

Geralt gets to work soon enough, making his way back to the sewers from last night to retrieve the proof he needs. It's a slow walk, what with his injured leg, but his witcher mutations are good for something, at least, and while his leg still pains him he manages to walk almost without limping. Eventually he gets there, and soon he has dealt with the drowner corpses. Seventeen in total, and seeing all of them scattered over the ground at once makes their numbers seem a lot more imposing than they had done during the night. His focus was completely on the fight then, on attacking and avoiding, to bother to actually count them. He's glad he didn't.

He catches up with captain Webster, and is promised a decent sum for the work. She has no new job for him, but Geralt doesn't mind. It's not like he could take it right now anyway.

Instead, he heads back home to deal with all the equipment that needs cleaning and mending. The laundry room isn't occupied, so he puts what he can into the washing machine, and while it works he goes back upstairs to clean his gun and dagger. He really should have done it yesterday, but he didn't want to waste his time with Regis.

By the time Geralt has done what he can for the moment — there is still some mending to be done, but that will have to wait until the clothes in question have dried — it's not that long left until Regis' shift is over. Geralt decides he might as well go meet him at the library. It's another slow walk, but he prefers it over sitting in his apartment doing nothing.

He doesn't see Regis around when he arrives at the library, but a glance at his phone tells him there's still a few minutes left of Regis' shift, so all he can do is wait. Geralt still feels awkward in the quiet library entrance, but he can endure it for a little while, and he looks around at the different books standing on their shelves to keep his mind occupied. A few are granted extra space and are displayed with their covers facing outwards rather than their spines, and one of these draws Geralt's attention.

On the cover is a painted portrait of an older woman, her dress as well as her jewels green and her long hair grey, almost white. She looks very regal, and her green eyes command respect. There's something familiar about her, though Geralt can't quite place why. The title of the book,  _ Queens of the North: Female Royalty Throughout History _ , suggests that he has probably seen it in some history book somewhere. Even if the history he has studied has been almost exclusively that of witchers and monsters.

Having some time to kill, Geralt ends up picking the book from its shelf and begins to browse through it. The queen on the cover turns up soon enough on the pages, now with text to accompany the image.  _ Queen Calanthe of Cintra _ , it reads. It rings a bell somewhere in the back of his mind, but Geralt still can't recall reading a whole lot about the history of Cintra. He shakes his head to clear it, and is about to put the book back, when something compels him to just browse a couple of pages more. He does, and lands on a page with another portrait, a young girl this time. Like the queen, she also has fair hair and green eyes, though looks less than pleased to be posing for a portrait. But what Geralt really notices is that he  _ knows  _ her. He can't find any context or explanation anywhere within his mind, but he knows what she looks like when she smiles, knows how her voice sounds, knows the weight of her when he carries her on his shoulders. He doesn't need to read the text below the image to know her name.

Ciri.

And yet, he also knows that he has never seen her before.

Geralt shuts the book and puts it back on its shelf as something very uncomfortable settles in his gut. Part of it is uncertainty, because those strong half-memories surfaced without warning, and without telling him anything else. Where did they come from? Why this girl? Another part of it is longing, because he knows that those feelings came from a good place, and he wants to find it within himself but doesn't know where to look. He tries to conjure something else about the girl, any other fragment of information, but is left empty handed. And another part is fear and dread, because if he can remember someone he knows he's never met… then that might mean that Regis was right. And that is something Geralt isn't ready for.

He takes a deep breath and goes to sit down in a nearby chair instead of standing by the books. He calms his breathing as much as he can in the minutes that follow, trying to clear his head and think about nothing.

"Geralt?"

He looks up at the sound of his name, his eyes landing on Regis, who is smiling in greeting as he approaches. There must still be traces of his tumultuous emotions on his face however, because Regis frowns then, looking concerned.

"Is something the matter?" he asks.

Geralt shakes his head, schooling his face into something more neutral, then offers a reassuring little smile. "No. Just thinking." It's not a lie, but he also doesn't want to say anything about the girl, not until he knows how he feels about it himself. He stands up and nods towards the exit. "Should we get going?"

Regis doesn't look completely convinced that nothing is wrong, his brows still slightly knitted together in worry, but he doesn't press either. "I take it your leg is feeling better?" he says instead as they walk to the door.

"Yeah. Witcher healing and a good medic make for a pretty decent combination. Still taking it slow though," Geralt replies.

"I would reprimand you if you didn't," Regis tells him, the library doors shutting behind them. "Not everyone is fortunate enough to have a personal surgeon; you should treasure yours lest he decides not to patch you up text time."

"As if you could stop yourself," Geralt points out, recalling every time when he would assure Regis that a small wound would heal fine on its own, and Regis demanded to take a look at it anyway.

"I suppose I do prefer you in one piece," Regis agrees, his tone light but his smile sincere. "My place or yours?"

"Yours," Geralt decides. His leg might be feeling better than last night, but a shorter walk would be preferable by now. Regis nods, likely sensing just that, and they turn in that direction.

 

They spend the rest of the afternoon and evening together in Regis' apartment, and it's pleasant company. Regis talks a lot, like he tends to do, and Geralt finds himself appreciating it even more than usual, because it's an excellent distraction from his messy thoughts that keep trying to force themselves to the surface. But in the moments of silence they break through, the what-ifs and the whys showing their faces despite Geralt's best efforts to keep them at bay.

What if he really has lived another life before and Regis was right? Why did he know the girl in the book? Why is it happening now? And why him? What if Regis was wrong and Geralt is simply just losing it?

His anxious thoughts become visible from time to time, and he hates it, because it makes Regis worry too.

"Are you certain you're alright?" he asks at one point. "There is nothing weighing you down?"

"I'm fine," Geralt assures, even though he isn't. Regis doesn't seem convinced, and asks him again later, and then once more. And each time Geralt puts on a smile and tells him not to worry, hoping he can make himself believe it as well.

He considers going home for the night, to ease Regis' mind somewhat, but when Regis asks him if he'll stay, the unsaid promise of being held close proves too tempting to refuse. As much as he doesn't want to burden Regis with his troubled thoughts, he wants to be alone even less.

 

Geralt is not surprised when he dreams of the girl whose name is Ciri.

In the dream he is fighting to help her, fending off countless attackers knowing that no matter what he must keep her safe. She is fighting too, and Geralt knows that he taught her how, even if the moves are strangely unfamiliar to him.

Everything blends together in a strange blur, scenes coming together and still somehow being distinctly apart from each other. The background changes; sometimes light, sometimes dark, sometimes warm, sometimes cold. Sometimes a forest, sometimes a building. But there's always a fight and a struggle. She changes too; a young girl in one moment, a young woman in the next, grown up and hardened in the blink of an eye, only to go back to being that innocent girl again as the moment passes.

It's all a violent mess, without ever slowing down, swirling around the pivot that is the girl. Geralt fights to protect her, but he never reaches her, always something blocking his path. Yet, he never gives up, ignoring the hits he takes in the process, and keeps pushing.

He wakes up gasping for air.

"It's alright, my dear," he hears Regis soft voice from behind him, breath tickling the nape of his neck. There's a hand on his upper arm, soothingly rubbing up and down. "It was just a dream."

Just a dream. Geralt breathes heavily for another few moments, before he takes control of his breathing. He reaches for Regis' hand and takes it, holding onto it with a tight grip. Regis responds by brushing his thumb over Geralt's knuckles.

A long silence follows. Or it might be a short one, but Geralt has no way of telling other than counting his breaths, which he doesn't do. Instead, he is overcome by his messy thoughts once again, washing over him and made stronger by the dream. The thoughts are chaotic, but they all boil down to one essential question in the end: Who is she?

Geralt's grip on Regis' hand doesn't let up, and Regis doesn't stop the gentle movement of his thumb either. Finally, Geralt breaks the silence.

"Regis?" he says quietly, his voice not as strong as he expected it to be.

"I'm here."

He doesn't know what he means to say. Whatever it is, is pushed aside to make way for what he ends up asking instead. "Does… the name Ciri mean anything to you?"

Regis goes very still. "It does," he says after another moment of silence. "Where did you hear it?"

"I didn't. I just… know it. Found a picture in a book earlier, at the library. She was some sort of princess, the name just popped into my head. As if I knew her." The words are flowing almost of their own accord now, and Geralt doesn't bother trying to stop them. It feels good to say it out loud. "But I've never seen her before," he continues. "And now I dreamed about her. About protecting her, fighting to keep her safe. Don't even know who she is though, not really."

"Ciri was," Regis begins, but cuts himself off with a sigh. There's a beat of silence, before he finally resumes moving his thumb across Geralt's knuckles, and begins to talk again. "She was Geralt of Rivia's daughter. Not biologically, of course, as you very well know that witchers can't have children. But they were bound together by destiny, and he adopted her as his own. There's much to be said about her, but I suppose the most noteworthy is that she saved the world from destruction. It's been forgotten by most, but it happened nonetheless."

"But why do I know her?" Geralt asks, even though he can guess the answer.

"Are you certain you want to hear it?" Regis asks carefully.

"Think I have to."

"I know you already dismissed my theory of reincarnation," Regis begins, his voice gentle, "and rightly so at the time, because there was no proof and the manner in which I presented it was rather poor. But if you knew who Ciri was after just one picture, and if you reacted this strongly to that knowledge, then that does hint towards at least some sort of connection between the two of you. And if Ciri is tied to your soul the way she was to his, I find it hard to believe that your souls aren't one and the same. If they are, seeing her portrait might have been enough to trigger the old memories of your spirit, causing them to come to life in your dreams." He pauses for a bit, before adding, "Does that sound reasonable?"

"Nothing about this is reasonable," Geralt scoffs. He rolls over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling instead of into the wall. Regis shifts beside him, but doesn't let go of his hand. He risks a glance at Regis, but he isn't looking at Geralt, his gaze instead locked on their joined hands. Geralt sighs and looks at the ceiling again, then makes a decision.

"This dream wasn't the first," he admits. His free hand comes up to grasp his witcher amulet, trying to ground himself. "Was the first time dreaming about Ciri, and the first time it was this intense. But not the first time for a lot of other things. When I dream I always feel like I'm me, but not, at the same time. Not my clothes, not my weapons, not the world I know. Everything is… older."

"Or younger, depending on the perspective. I'm sorry. Please go on."

Geralt sighs, but not out of annoyance. "Usually can't make out the faces of the people around me, in the dreams. Ciri was an exception tonight. And since we visited the museum, that bard in the painting, Dandelion, has been an exception too. And… so have you, since the day we met." He glances at Regis now, who has a little smile on his lips.

"You dream about me?" he asks, meeting Geralt's gaze. He sounds happy, curious, and a little bit astonished.

"Yeah. Mostly in the forest. Sitting by campfires. Horseriding, I think. Maybe a castle too, but it's fuzzy."

"Why didn't you say something?"

Geralt shrugs. "Didn't seem worth mentioning. Thought it might come off as a bit creepy, even." He looks up at the ceiling again, licking his lips. "Do you… Do you think they might be memories? From him?"

"I wouldn't dismiss it," Regis tells him. "I would consider it quite plausible, even. Naturally, I can only really speak for the times I was personally present, or have been told of afterwards, but I could try to confirm it, if you like, try to help you piece it all together."

"I'd like that," Geralt says, nodding.

Regis shifts, gets a bit more comfortable against Geralt's side, and then he begins to talk. He talks about how they traveled together, him and Geralt of Rivia and others, and of what they did. Geralt confirms it from time to time, recalling certain fragments from dreams he's had. Occasionally, he's the one to ask about a dream instead, and Regis tells him what he knows of it. His memory isn't perfect, he says, not after eight centuries, but he still seems to remember a good deal of it all.

Geralt still finds it hard to believe that he might have led another life before this one, but it is a relief to at least have some sort of explanation to the dreams he has had for as long as he can remember. And it's a relief to realise it by Regis' side, who won't ever judge him for it. Even if it takes some time, he thinks he can come to terms with it all.

They stay there, talking, until the first signs of dawn begin to make themselves known, and then longer still, until the sun has risen completely. Outside, the city has awoken all around them, but in the small apartment that doesn't matter, and for the time being, all that exists is just Geralt and Regis and the words they speak.

 

It's a few days later when Geralt realises that he never apologised for discarding the medallion. When he brings it up, Regis is understanding as usual.

"It's nothing to worry about," he says. "It only makes sense that you wouldn't want that reminder in that moment. And I thought it best not to press the subject." He gives Geralt a quizzical look before continuing. "It's still yours, of course, should you want it back."

Geralt thinks about it for a moment before he nods. The whole deal with his soul being older than he thought it was is still very strange to him, but it helps to have Regis anchoring him. Perhaps, he thinks, the medallion that belonged to his former self can be another anchor. After all, it had felt so familiar when he had it last.

Regis stands and walks into the other room for a few moments, and when he returns the pointy wolf head medallion is in his hand. He sits back down and gives the medallion to Geralt.

Again, the weight of it is just what he expects it to be. A small smile comes to Geralt's lips. "Think he would have been glad that you kept it, all these years," he finds himself saying. It's still hard to think of himself and Geralt of Rivia as the same person, even if he supposes they are, in a way. For now though, he'll stick to referring to him in third person.

"Truly?" Regis asks. "My reasons for it were rather selfish, I must admit."

"Truly," Geralt confirms. He stares into the cold eyes of the silver wolf, and as he does, he feels something within himself shift, unfurl. Something old. The words form themselves, called to the surface by the ancient silver but brought on by something much more alive. "He cared for you a great deal, even if he didn't say it. He…" Geralt takes a shaky breath around the truth that he shares with someone else. "He loved you. And… I do too."

Silence.

There is only his pulse in his ears, beating hard. Geralt risks a quick glance at Regis, who is sitting completely motionless across from him, staring into the book he's reading. His eyes are a little wider than normal. Geralt looks away again.

Finally, there's movement as Regis slowly pushes the book aside and looks up. Geralt can feel his eyes on him.

"Could you," Regis pauses, clearing his throat, "could you say that again, please?"

"He lo–"

"Not that," Regis interrupts, shaking his head. "What you said after."

It feels like a challenge. And a much more difficult one than fighting a monster. In a fight, he knows what to expect. Geralt swallows. His hand clenches around the wolf medallion as he meets Regis' eyes. "I love you," he says. His voice is steadier than he thought it would be.

Regis exhales in what Geralt thinks is relief as his face splits into a wide, genuine smile, the kind that shows his fangs and is reserved for when there are no other people around. He leans across the small kitchen table, surprising Geralt with a kiss. It's brief, but when they part he stays close with his forehead pressed against Geralt's, his hand cupping the back of his head. "I love you too," he breathes, a little shaky.

That's what finally has Geralt relax, and he closes his eyes as the tension leaves him. The hand that isn't holding the medallion comes up to cup Regis' head, holding him close. "Almost had me worried you weren't gonna say it back," he teases.

"You foolish man," Regis says softly, his pointed fingernails brushing through the short hairs on the nape of Geralt's neck. "Of course I love you."

"Even though I'm not him anymore?" Geralt asks, because he has a tendency to say the wrong thing.

Regis pulls back a little, to look him in the eyes. "I loved you back then as well," he tells him. "But nothing came of it, as you know. And even if it had, it wouldn't have any impact whatsoever on this, on what I feel for you now. It was many centuries ago, Geralt, a long time even for me. Trust me when I say that my feelings are for none other than the man you are right now, and that if I say I love you, I mean it. I may have lied about many things throughout my life, but never about my affections."

Regis' black eyes are intense and sincere, enough so that if he had been standing up, Geralt's knees would surely have buckled. He can't seem to find his voice, so he just nods and swallows.

"I trust you," he promises once he finally regains the ability to speak.

"Well then," Regis muses, a smile playing on his lips. "You love me, I love you… It's finally said and out into the open after quite some time. I suggest we make the most of it."

Geralt smiles back. "Can't say no to that," he agrees, and kisses him again.

\- - -

_ The life of a witcher is often a long and lonely one. And so is the life of a vampire. _

_ But sometimes, fate smiles on these people and pushes them together in the most unlikely ways. On the rarest of occasions it happens even more than once. _

_ Geralt the witcher and Regis the vampire are given one of those rare second chances and choose to treasure it. They choose happiness. _

_ For the life of a witcher and the life of a vampire may be long, but it doesn't always have to be lonely. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much to everyone who has read this fic, to everyone who has been around from the beginning, to everyone who jumped aboard somewhere in the middle, and to everyone who read it now that it's complete.
> 
> And a huge thanks to everyone who's commented. Every single comment means so much, and the fic would not have been written if not for you.
> 
> I hope you've liked this story and I hope you liked how it ended <3


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